


None of These and Nothing Else

by ultrapsychobrat



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrapsychobrat/pseuds/ultrapsychobrat





	None of These and Nothing Else

MID-NOVEMBER, FRIDAY EARLY EVENING

 

"Starsky! Will you come on? We're gonna be late—again!” Ken Hutchinson drummed his fingers impatiently on the door frame of the bedroom and swore silently. Why in hell couldn't that man be on time for anything? “Starsky!”

The sound of the shower ceased abruptly.

“You say somethin'?” Dave Starsky sauntered out of the bathroom after a minute, rubbing at his wet hair with a towel.

Keeping a tight rein on himself, Hutch looked pointedly at his watch. “Seven o'clock, buddy. Seven o'clock is when we're supposed to pick up the girls. It is now six-forty. Allowing twenty-five minutes of driving time, if by some miracle the freeways aren't as crowded as they usually are on a Friday night, not to mention the time it's going to take you to get dressed, we're still going to be thirty minutes late. Did it ever occur to you, just once in your life, to be early for something?” It wasn't working. The knot of tension already had a grip on his stomach, and he felt ready to explode. Starsky's look of pained innocence didn't help. Throwing up his hands in irritation, Hutch turned on his heel and strode out into the living room.

“It's not my fault I was late gettin' home,” Starsky called from the doorway. “How did I know I was gonna get a flat? A hundred and fifty bucks apiece I paid for those tires. S'posed to go through a bed of spikes without a puncture. Guy at the garage said it was—“

Hutch turned to glare at him. “Are you going to get dressed or not?” The quiet tone did nothing to disguise the barely suppressed anger.

 

“Okay, okay,” Starsky mumbled. “Jeese! A guy does a favor by settin' up his friend with a gorgeous chick and all he gets in return is complaints.”

 

“Who asked you? Who the hell asked you? You think I can't get my own dates or something?” A small segment of his consciousness separated itself and stepped aside to observe. He heard the angry accusations pouring forth, saw Starsky's eyes widen in astonishment, and could do nothing to stop himself. “You're always butting in where you're not needed. Did you ever stop to think I might not want to go out with one of your cheap tricks?”

 

“Hutch—“

 

“Just shut up! Shut up!”

 

Silence fell, as if the words had been meant for himself; perhaps they had. But with the silence fell the barriers mindless shouts had sustained. Nothing now protected him from the demons of his soul. Pain ripped through him, welling up from his stomach and exploding outward in shock waves of agony. The need for escape sent him running for the door.

 

“Hutch? Hutch!”

 

The door slammed shut behind him as he half-ran, half-stumbled down the stairs into the November darkness.

 

*******

*******

 

FRIDAY EARLY EVENING

 

Starsky stopped at the door and pressed his forehead against the smooth wood, numb and hurting at the same time. “Hutch, what's happening?” Crystal eyes, haunted and hungry, burned in his mind—a sight that had grown all too familiar—a stranger's eyes.

 

After a few minutes he straightened and retraced his steps to the bedroom on leaden feet. Sitting on the side of the bed, he picked up the phone and dialed Annette's number. At least a cop had the advantage of a built-in excuse for broken dates. Even if she were the suspicious type, there was no way for an outsider to check up on a cop—classified information.

 

He replaced the receiver, the woman's disappointment and anger already forgotten. They didn't matter. She didn't matter.

 

He finally got up and put on some clothes, wandering into the kitchen for a can of beer. Returning to the living room, he flopped down on the couch, swearing under his breath as some of the beer sloshed across his hand.

 

What the hell had happened to his life? A knot tightened in his stomach making him gasp in pain. “Goddamn! Goddamn the whole fuckin' world!” The words were low and desperate, weapons of sound to combat the silence. Useless weapons, for the silence had taken over inside as well as out, slowly, stealthily, unnoticed until now it was too late. Unnoticed? No...ignored.

 

_He ran down the litter strewn alley, Hutch at his side. They had Maric cornered in this dead-end. They knew it; he knew it. But the punk turned stupid and opened fire on them from behind a trash bin. Starsky wasn't particularly worried._

_There was no place for the creep to go. All he and Hutch had to do was wait for him to empty the revolver and then jump him before he could reload._

_Pressed against the wall, automatic ready, he counted shots and winked at Hutch._

_...five..._

_“Give it up, Maric!”_

_“Fuck you, pig!”_

_...six..._

_He nodded at Hutch and bolted toward the trash bin. Noise and pain exploded simultaneously, tumbling him mid stride._

_...seven..._

_No one carried a bullet in the chamber of a revolver—too dangerous. Only Maric was too stupid to know that. Goddamned stupid—_

_“Don't kill me! Oh, Jesus, please don't kill me!”_

_The scream of terror reached through his pain and shock, bringing his head up from the gritty asphalt to confront a nightmare scene. A now unarmed Maric groveled on the pavement, arms raised in surrender and pitiful attempt to protect himself. Hutch sighted along the Magnum and drew back the hammer._

_“Hutch!” He stumbled to his feet, dizzy and terrified. “No!”_

_For one horrible instant he watched the long finger tighten on the trigger, and then it was over. The Magnum shifted from its target, the hammer eased back into place, glazed blue eyes turned to him._

_The wound wasn't serious, not even requiring a night in the hospital. Hutch drove him home and went back to the station to do the paper work on the case. Starsky took one of the pain pills and fell into an exhausted sleep. Sometime before morning he awoke to find Hutch standing by the bed. Neither of them said a word, and after a few minutes Hutch left. The next day he wondered if he'd dreamed the whole thing, but for some reason he couldn't ask Hutch, nor did he mention the incident in the alley._

 

 

When had they stopped talking, stopped trusting? When had the arguments become destructive instead of ways to relieve the tension? When had he become afraid to know what Hutch was thinking and even more afraid to share his own feelings? He remembered crying in Hutch's arms after Terry's funeral—pouring out the grief and guilt. He also remembered how scared he'd been last month when he'd finally been allowed back out on the streets after being shot up last spring—he hadn't been able to share any of that with Hutch. And Hutch hadn't asked. What had changed during the years between?

 

His head ached with the effort of answering questions that had no answers, and his heart ached with the sadness of loss. He set the empty beer can on the coffee table and got to his feet, going immediately to the telephone. It couldn't be too late, not if they tried. And Hutch would want to try, wouldn't he?

 

The hollow ring of the unanswered call went on and on as coldness spread along his veins. He finally cradled the receiver, and wandered aimlessly through the empty apartment on appropriately silent feet.

 

***********

***********

 

Headlights splashed across the road, picking out the filigreed scrub, freezing the barren hillside in flashpoints of brilliance, and then moved on. Hutch stared at the receding taillights and slumped a little lower behind the wheel of his parked car, closing his eyes in exhaustion. What the hell was he doing here, anyway? He'd hated this road ever since.... What difference did it make? Maybe it would've been better if he'd just died there and then. Easier. Cleaner.

 

He massaged his throbbing temples and tried to think, plan. What to do? Where to go? How to exorcise this demon? But everything blurred in his tired mind. No place to run. No more excuses remaining. No games unplayed. No one, no where, nothing. “Oh, God!” he half-sobbed and pressed his head against the steering wheel. Where was mercy?

 

Starsky's face, sharp with pain, came into focus. Salvation and judgment. Safety and destruction. He tried to block this dead end path of thought, but the barriers refused to hold. The all too familiar longing and hopelessness welled up, shortening his breath, dampening his face with a sheen of perspiration, tearing his guts apart.

 

He remembered the first time these feelings had overwhelmed him, and he'd been just as scared then as now, only he'd been ignorant of the cause. No, that wasn't true. He had known in that first split second of awareness. And truth was an insidious force—once known it refused to be ignored or shoved back into the realms of unawareness. No matter how he denied it, the reality of his feelings remained there before him, tantalizing, forbidden.

 

Starsky almost dying last spring had been his breaking point. If only he had been brave enough to tell him the truth at Christmas—maybe it wouldn't have happened. Who knows where they would have been? Many of the philosophers he had read during the six months before had agreed—intentions were what mattered. You had no way to control the outcome of your actions—all you could control were the intentions of your acts. Could he have changed where they ended up? Could he have prevented that outcome—Starsky so still and silent? Could he have out maneuvered Gunther's plan, and kept Starsky from that living hell? If he had chosen love all those months ago, when he first knew how he felt, would Starsky have been spared that physical pain and near death? _Please, don't die, Starsk...please...._

 

How many times had he uttered those words? How often had he prayed to a god in which he had never believed, willing to become what he was not to save his love's life? _Anything, anything at all, I promise you anything if you will only let him live. I will become a monk, celibate and alone, if you will let him live. I'll never see him again, if that is what you ask...anything...anything...._

 

He stared out at the darkness, the lights of L.A. sparkling below him. So many millions of people down there—and he didn't give a damn about any of them...except he cared much too much about one of them. Why? Where had the feelings come from? Had they always been there, waiting for recognition? How was that possible? He knew himself inside out, didn't he? He'd never felt this way about...he gritted his teeth and forced the thought to assume form...about another man. Had he? Or was that just self-delusion, too? Maybe he'd always been...queer, fairy, fag.... Sickness rose in his throat. That's what they called his sort, so he'd better get used to it.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

FRIDAY EVENING

 

Blue was the color of the room. Blue walls, blue lights, blue upholstery. Blue haze swirled about in slow, lazy circles, blurring the faces of the strangers. Music, loud and harsh, pounded at his ears. Shrill laughter cut through the rhythm of the band, discordant, setting his teeth on edge. He felt a desperate panic rising and stepped back toward the door, sorry he had come here, needing to leave. A hand settled on his arm, and he whirled defensively, ready to lash out at whoever had dared to touch him.

 

“Easy, easy.” Teeth glittered whitely in the dark face of the man beside him. “You're new here, aren't you?”

 

Hutch stared into appraising eyes, which were strangely pale in contrast to the swarthy skin. He could think of nothing to say.

 

“Would you like a drink?” the man asked. “It takes a little getting used to. Come on.” He turned away from Hutch and began threading his way across the crowded room to the equally crowded bar.

 

Hutch looked after him, unmoving. If he accepted the offer, what would it mean? He had no idea of the operative etiquette of places such as this. Two new arrivals pushed in behind him, and he moved aside to let them pass. His movement drew him to the attention of a couple leaning against the near wall.

 

“Well, well,” the shorter of the two said, taking a couple of steps closer in his direction. “New...faces are always welcome. What's your name, blondie? I'm Bill, and this is Casey.” He nodded toward the other man who had stepped forward to join him.

 

Both of them were young, pimply-faced, and interested. Hutch shuddered in distaste, turning away from their open stares of invitation.

 

“Good! You're still here.” The smiling stranger was there before him again, handing him an ice-filled glass. “Be nice, girls,” he spoke over Hutch's shoulder to the other two. “I saw him first.”

 

A murmur of disappointment and grudging resignation reached Hutch's ears, and then the dark man was leading him toward a vacant table. They sat in silence for a few minutes while Hutch gulped at his drink and tried to remember why he was here.

 

He was proving something to himself, wasn't he? One way or another he had to know. If he were...gay, such a nice, innocuous word...then this was where he belonged, wasn't it?

 

He sighed deeply and glanced at the man sitting across from him. The pale gray eyes caught and held his for a long moment. Questions lurked there, questions to which he had no answers. He cleared his throat in embarrassment and looked away.

 

For the first time since he'd entered, Hutch allowed himself really to see where he was. Groups of men stood everywhere, drinking and laughing. The music tempo had changed to one of slow undulation, and a few couples circled the tiny dance floor, bodies pressed tight, eyes closed. Others sat at the small tables, heads together, holding hands or kissing. He wondered at their seeming lack of inhibition and tried to imagine ever behaving in such a manner. He couldn't.

 

None of the dozens of books he'd read over the last year had prepared him for this. It was one thing to see the words in print and quite another to see real people engaged in activities his entire socializing process had decreed abnormal. There was no way to bridge that gap.

 

He studied individual faces, pushing aside his feelings of voyeurism. They were, for the most part, rather unattractive men. A sense of sadness welled up. Is this what it meant to be gay? He thought of his own blond good looks, the body and face that had always gotten him anyone he'd ever wanted. Starsky's face flashed through his mind. Almost anyone. He gulped the last of his drink and set the glass down with quiet violence.

 

“This is your first time out, isn't it?”

 

The question caught him unprepared. He met the man's eyes and felt himself blush. Out—that all important word. Was that what he was? He nodded jerkily and looked down at his hands.

 

“Would you like to dance?”

 

 _Dear God. No!_ What was he doing here? He stared at the man, taking in the clear eyes and dark handsomeness. Did this person belong here either? “No...no thanks.” His voice came in a harsh rasp. What? I'm not like you...I hate all this...I love a man, but I'm not like you!

 

“Sure?”

 

“Yeah, look...I think I'll go.” He got to his feet. Why had he ever thought he could learn from anything here?

 

“Hey, it's okay. Sit down.”

 

Once more he felt a grasp on his arm. He shivered as warmth seeped through his jacket and pulled away. “I'm sorry. I can't—“

 

“It's not easy, is it? But running away won't help.”

 

Hutch stopped in mid-stride and turned back to the table. The man sat, relaxed, a speculative look in his eyes.

 

“You'll be back. Oh, maybe not here, but somewhere. You won't be able to help yourself. I know.” A flicker of something akin to despair crossed the man's face. “I tried. I still try, sometimes.” A smile flashed out of the dimness. “But go ahead. You have to find that out for yourself.”

 

Running away? Yes, for most of his life—running from a family that didn't understand him, from women who wanted to own him, from himself. And he was tired. Tired of the running and the pretense and the loneliness. He sat down again. “How long?”

 

The man didn't ask what he meant. “Six years.”

 

“How did you know?”

 

“How do you?”

 

“I'm not. At least....” His voice faltered.

 

“Not like them,” his companion completed his sentence, gesturing to encompass the other men at the bar. “Neither am I...or I wish I weren't. I lie a lot. Most of us do. It doesn't help much, but....” He shrugged and sipped at his half-full drink.

 

Hutch watched a mask of indifference descend over the man's face. When the gray eyes met his again, they were distant and uncaring.

 

“So you're queer and don't like it, huh?'

 

Shock assaulted him. Queer. Images of filthy bathrooms and sleazy little men in dirty raincoats overwhelmed him. Limp-wristed queens, decked out in cheap finery skirted the edges of his consciousness. All the obscene jokes and cutting jabs formed ranks in his memory. _No...no...no...._ He felt dizzy with disgust and tried to shut out the pictures. Where was he? Who was he?

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

The words came from a great distance.

 

“That wasn't fair. Why don't we go someplace quieter? No strings. We can just talk.”

 

Hutch saw the genuine caring in the stranger's face, but was unable to answer. This man had nothing to offer him.

 

“Ken?”

 

Another man stood at his side. He glanced up and met disaster. It couldn't be. Mustn't be. Blue spangled blackness threatened to drag him under. But the nightmare did not disappear. Brett Adams was real and here, a cop who knew him.

 

“Hello, Brett.” He marveled at his own calm tone. Maybe this really was just a dream or a play. He felt removed from any sense of reality. “Have a seat.” He pulled out another chair and smiled at this old acquaintance. “Haven't seen you in a while. How're you doing?”

 

Adams sat in the chair, but spoke to the other man. “Can I buy you a drink, Alex?”

 

The gray eyes shifted between Hutch and Adams and then crinkled in a rueful smile. “Sure, Brett, one of these days.” He stood up, glancing at his watch. “It's getting late. See you around.” He hesitated for another moment, started to say something, and then abruptly walked off toward the bar.

 

“What are you drinking, Ken? Want another?”

 

Hutch shook his head, wondering what in the world he could say to explain his presence here. Undercover? Out of his jurisdiction. Kicks? Not his style. The truth? Unthinkable. His fingers curled into fists of tension as he made himself look at Adams. The brown eyes searched his face for several moments in silence.

 

“Let's go,” Adams said finally and stood up, waiting while Hutch got to his feet.

 

The sense of unreality was replaced by one of inevitability. In some corner of his mind he was aware of a vast relief. And that was insanity. He followed Adams to the door without question. His fate was out of his own hands, now.

 

The two young punks were still idling against the wall, and they smiled knowingly as Hutch passed them. He ignored their leers, but couldn't block their parting comments.

 

“Looks like blonds really do have more fun, huh, Casey?”

 

“Yeah, man. Pretty boys always score the big fish.”

 

Hutch saw Adams' shoulders stiffen and wondered why he hadn't questioned the other cop's presence here. He was known, obviously, and not as an arm of the law. But that was impossible. Brett Adams was married, had kids. The world turned upside down, and he fought to gain some foothold in the confusion. Nothing made sense anymore, especially his own mind.

 

The late-night air struck chill to the bones when he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Strains of disjointed music came to him, lingering ties to the bar and its occupants. Cars passed, their engines muffling the hollow sounds of shoes on cement. He followed Adams to the parking lot and climbed into the other man's car, not knowing where they were going and not asking.

 

Adams sat behind the wheel for a few minutes, staring out at the blackness with an air of indecision. Exhaling loudly, he started the engine and backed the car from its slot. “You still live at Venice Place?” he asked quietly as he merged into the steady stream of traffic.

 

“Yes,” Hutch answered as he fought down a wave of panic.

 

************

************

 

FRIDAY NIGHT

 

 _Goddamn!_ Adams swore to himself and flashed a quick look at the blond man. What the hell was Hutchinson doing in a place like that? Stupid question. What was anyone doing there? The same as everyone else—looking for a connection. But Ken Hutchinson? Yeah, why the hell not? Nothing so peculiar about that, except.... Who was he trying to kid? He'd received the shock of his life when he'd recognized the big cop at that table with Alex Tappan. Why? And why the hell was he interfering? If Hutchinson wanted to make the scene, what business was it of his?

 

David Starsky crossed his thoughts for the first time that night. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Did Starsky know about his partner? He knew that the two men had been friends and partners for years. But were they also lovers? That hadn't really occurred to him, at least not as a conscious consideration. Now he turned it over in his mind and wondered. The super cops of Metro were known to everyone—always together. But their womanizing was also well known. Not that that meant anything. Lots of cops played the role. Like he did, he admitted, and then carefully closed down the old guilt. He'd been through them all a thousand times and knew he couldn't change what he was.

 

The hour's drive to Hutchinson's passed in silence. The street lights glowed dimly in the faint sea fog, providing little illumination to the darkness of the street as he pulled up in front of the apartment. He switched off the engine and pulled the key from the ignition. Hutchinson sat unmoving, hands folded in his lap.

 

Adams touched his shoulder, but withdrew his hand quickly as the blond man flinched away. This wasn't going to be easy. He opened the door, stepped out into the street, and walked around to the passenger side. Hutchinson climbed out and crossed to the apartment door without a word. Adams waited where he was. He heard the door open and then the quiet voice.

 

“Aren't you coming up?”

 

“If you want me to,” he answered in an equally quiet tone and joined Hutchinson at the foot of the narrow stairs. They climbed in silence.

 

A key scraped in the lock and light spilled out into the hallway. Adams entered the large room, and glanced around at the vaguely familiar furnishings. He'd been here a couple of times in the past, a guest at informal parties, all very normal and safe with his wife by his side. He felt out of place here, now, and suspicious of his own motives. Hutchinson was confused and vulnerable and...beautiful. He realized that he'd always found the blond man attractive, would have undoubtedly made a move years ago if he'd suspected there might be a chance of success. So what had he really hoped to gain from his high-handed rescue tonight? An easy seduction? Maybe.

 

Hutchinson was busy in the kitchen, preparing coffee. Adams watched the tall body move and let himself think about how he'd be in bed—all white and gold...and scared. The terror reached out to him across the room and chilled him. Perhaps the barrier he'd felt with this man all these years was more than supposed straightness. When he stopped to think about it, he couldn't remember any man around Hutchinson, except Starsky, always Starsky. He'd felt like an outsider around the two and had never questioned the reason—they were straight and he was gay. It was as simple as that. Or so he'd assumed.

 

Hutchinson carried two steaming mugs into the living room and placed them on the low coffee table. Adams sat down on the couch before picking up one of the mugs and sipping at it's scalding contents. Hutchinson hesitated for a moment, and then carefully sat down beside him, not touching, but definitely within reach. This was becoming more difficult by the minute. If the man wanted it, who was he to say no? Except he had to. He'd never been a chicken hawk, and taking one like Hutchinson amounted to the same perversion. Because from a deep core of instinct he knew that, despite where he'd found him tonight, this one had never been with another man, not even the common teenage tumbles. Such complete repression sometimes happened, but it took strong motivation to break down those walls. And the consequences were frequently disastrous. When a man tried to change a lifetime of reaction patterns, he risked losing all sense of his own being. Adams knew the sad, scared men who sat in the shadows and drank themselves into oblivion—always unsure of what or who they were and afraid to make any kind of choice.

 

He didn't want to see Hutchinson join their ranks. And the possibility was there. He was looking for someone to make his choices for him, to negate the need for decision. Adams wasn't ready to assume that kind of role. He liked this man and desired him, but he didn't love him, couldn't afford even to think about that possibility. His own life was precarious enough as it was without adding the responsibility for another man. And that's what anyone who took Hutchison as he was would be doing. That man would need all the love he could summon to save this one from destruction. And again, Starsky came to mind.

 

What exactly was their relationship? Not lovers—of that much he was certain. Best friends? Yes, but more than what was usually meant by that term. He recalled their easy familiarity—the smiles and touches, the fierce loyalty and protectiveness. And suddenly he knew what was wrong. It was so simple he felt stupid for not having realized it immediately. Hutchinson's love for his partner had gone beyond the point of safe affection, and he was terrified of this new emotion. Adams knew what that was like. He'd requested transfers more than once in his career.

 

He looked closely at the man seated beside him and noted the hunched shoulders and pain-etched face. How long had he been living with this nightmare? Questioning every accepted truth about himself? Hating himself? Tearing himself apart? Adams didn't pretend to understand completely. He had known his own preferences since puberty, and his fears were different. But he sympathized and wanted to help.

 

“Ken?”

 

The blue eyes turned to him, wide with fright, but determined. A feeling of great tenderness welled within Adams. He wanted to take this man in his arms and show him that nothing was as bad as it seemed. But he clamped down on his own response, certain that such a move would be the worst thing he could do. The gods were more cruel than usual tonight.

 

“Relax, nothing's going to happen. Do you want to talk about it?”

 

The eyes wavered and then met his again. “You're...gay, aren't you?”

 

There was a plea in the words that Adams didn't miss. Tell me why I feel this way. And how did he explain something he didn't understand? There were no pat answers, no matter how the psychologists tried. His own childhood had been absolutely normal in every respect. There was no domineering mother or absentee father to blame. He simply preferred men. And Hutchinson? What made a man who had lived a completely straight life for more than thirty years wake up one night and realize he wanted to make love to another man?

 

“Yes, I am,” he stated matter-of-factly. “But you already know that. What about you?”

 

Silence was his answer, but he hadn't expected anything else. Hutchinson was still poised on that fine edge of indecision. If he admitted his feelings, allowed them to become the concrete reality of words, he would be committed. But that's exactly what he had to do—make a choice.

 

“Do you want me to make love to you? I'd like to, you know.”

 

He smiled grimly at the blush of embarrassment which crept up the fair skin. “Don't worry,” he reassured. "I'm not into masochism, and you're dangerous. No, don't shake your head. I've made one-night stands a way of life, but I wouldn't be able to walk away from you. I think I could love you, and you'd destroy me”

 

Adams lapsed into silence, staring at the cooling coffee. Why was he saying these things? Meaning these things? Sweet Jesus! He had to get out of here. Setting down the cup, he rose to his feet and started for the door.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

He paused, squeezing his eyes shut to drive away the demons, and then turned to face Hutchinson. “Home, Ken. Home to my wife and kids and all the lies. But mine are honest lies, because they're all known, and I never lie to myself.”

 

Hutch stood and took a couple of steps toward him. “Brett, I need—“

 

“Don't say it,” Adams interrupted sharply. “You're playing a cheap game. What if I made you like it? I could, you know. I'm good. What then? Hit the circuit? Make it with anyone clean enough or pretty enough and never have to face the truth? You don't want me or any of them. We'd all just be substitutes. I told you, I never lie to myself, and that's the only help I can give you. Don't lie to yourself.”

 

He turned away from the destructive blue eyes, pulled the door open, and walked down the stairs, tired and discouraged. What the hell was he playing at? Any self-delusions he'd ever had had been stripped away years ago. He wasn't the white knight bent on saving the world, but.... The raw misery in Hutchinson's eyes came back to haunt him. He couldn't knowingly allow the man to suffer like that. So what did he do?

 

He slid behind the steering wheel of his car and shut the door, leaning back against the head rest. There weren't too many choices. In fact, the only one that offered any hope of success was the one he'd been trying to avoid ever since he'd figured out Hutchinson's problem. Starsky. Icy tentacles coiled around his gut, and he acknowledged his fear for what it was. He'd been a survivor for too many years not to recognize the danger he courted in facing Starsky. There was no way to predict what the man would do if he wasn't able to handle the truth. A couple of black eyes were the least of his concerns. Starsky was capable of destroying Hutchinson, himself, and anyone else near the blast area of his temper. In honesty, he had to face the possibility that his own carefully ordered life might be blown apart in the resulting explosion, and he didn't want to think about that. He loved his wife and kids and his job. He didn't want to lose them.

 

Could he trust Starsky's love for Hutchinson enough to take the chance? Hoping to God he could, he leaned forward and started the car.

 

***********

***********

 

FRIDAY NIGHT

 

_“Oh, Georgie, do you really mean it?”_

_“Well, sure, Betty Lou. Gee whiz, you don't think I go around saying things like that to just every ol' girl I meet, do you?”_

_“Goodness me, Georgie! How should I know what you say to other girls?”_

 

 

Starsky hit the off button on the TV with suppressed violence. Nothing but crap on the tube tonight. He wandered into the kitchen and fished a fresh can of beer from the refrigerator, popped the lid, and took a long swallow of the cold liquid. He stared at the week's worth of dirty dishes in the sink and turned his back on them. Who cared? Prowling into the bedroom, he picked up his latest self-improvement book— _Using the Power of Your Dreams_ —riffled the pages, and threw it on the bed. The hell with it. He didn't have the right kind of dreams. His eyes sought the telephone. Maybe he should try calling Hutch one more time. It was very late. He might be home by now.

 

The doorbell rang loudly through the silent apartment. A sharp thrill tightened his stomach muscles. Hutch? Maybe. He hurried into the living room.

 

“Hutch?” he called as he fumbled with the lock.

 

“Brett Adams, Dave.”

 

He threw open the door, frowning in disappointment and puzzlement. His mind automatically placed the man in his proper frame of reference—Detective Sergeant, Rampart, Robbery, sixteen years on the force, working acquaintance. What the hell was he doing here?

 

Adams flashed him a quick smile that didn't reach his eyes. They were guarded and serious. “May I come in?”

 

Starsky stepped aside to let Adams enter and then shut the door, leaning against it, not speaking. His mind raced down all the avenues of possible explanations for Adams' presence and hit dead ends or things he didn't want to consider.

 

Adams stopped a few feet into the room and glanced about him, checking his surroundings as a cop always did. “How've you been, Dave?” he asked without looking at him.

 

“What's wrong?” Starsky demanded quietly.

 

Adams turned at the question, meeting his eyes once more. The brown eyes bore through him, reaching beneath the surface, seeking out his soul.

 

“How much do you love Ken?”

 

The totally unexpected question short-circuited his thought processes. He stared blankly into the hooded eyes. “What?” he managed to murmur at last.

 

“He's in trouble and he needs your help.”

 

Fear leaped in his heart, snapping his mind alert again. He bounded away from the door, grasping at Adams' arm with hard fingers. “Where's Hutch? What kind of trouble?” He gave Adams a sharp shake of impatience. “Tell me!”

 

“It's not that kind of trouble, Dave. He's not hurt. This'll be easier if you'll sit down and listen for a while.”

 

Starsky peered at the man closely for almost a full minute before releasing his arm and sitting down in the nearest chair. A sinking feeling of disaster weighted his body. Ever since Hutch had run out last evening, he'd been waiting for something terrible to happen. And Adams was going to tell him what it was. With a desperate kind of homesickness, he wished for Hutch, here, the way it used to be—laughing, bickering, warm and safe. He didn't want to hear what Adams had to say, wanted to deny that there was anything wrong.

 

“Dave, are you listening?”

 

He nodded, folding his arms tightly across his chest, and focused his attention on the other man.

 

Adams sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. “Do you know what _Gino's_ is? Over on Foothill?”

 

Starsky sorted through his memory, but drew a blank. He shook his head.

 

“It's a gay pick-up joint. Ken...Hutch went there tonight.”

 

The words garbled in his mind. Gay bar? Pick-up? Hutch? Foothill... _Gino's_? What was Adams saying? A case? They weren't working over there—not their jurisdiction.

 

“Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

 

“No.” He watched a change come over Adams' face—aloofness taking the place of concern.

 

“Ken was in _Gino's_ to make a connection, a date with a man. I found him before he could score.”

 

Hot, deadly anger surged through Starsky's body, tensing every muscle for attack. He rose slowly to his feet, fists clinched. “You goddamned lying bastard. I'll kill you.”

 

Adams stood quickly and moved away from the coffee table. He watched Starsky with wariness. “Don't make this any more difficult than it is, Dave. You haven't heard—“

 

“Shut your filthy mouth.” He pulled his anger around him, closing out the need to think about Adams' words. There was safety in anger. He advanced another step. Adams stayed where he was.

 

“Killing me isn't going to change the truth or help Ken.”

 

The voice was quiet and sincere. It hurtled the barriers of rage. He tried to force the words back, failed and suddenly his anger was cold and heavy in the pit of his stomach. He stared down at his clinched fists and carefully uncurled the fingers. His hands shook.

 

“Dave?”

 

He looked up at this messenger of destruction and hated him. What right did he have to come into his life and rip it apart?

 

“I know this isn't easy, but Ken needs your help, if you can give it. If not....” The quiet voice trailed off, a closed expression masking his face.

 

“Where is he?”

 

“Home.”

 

Starsky nodded and walked toward the bedroom. It was cold out, he'd need a jacket.

 

“What are you going to do?” Adams' voice took on a sharp edge.

 

“Go see him, if it's any of your business,” he answered without pausing.

 

“Don't do that. Not yet.”

 

Starsky whirled, temper flaring once more. “You've dropped your little bombshell, now get the hell out! I can take care of Hutch.”

 

“No you can't. Not like this. You have no idea what you're getting into.”

 

Starsky wiped at the cold sweat which had broken out on his face. “What is this? You come in here telling me Hutch needs my help because...because....” His mind refused to complete the sentence. Adams was wrong, had to be wrong. He had made a terrible mistake, confused the information. He'd talk to Hutch and find out what had really happened and they'd laugh about it and everything would be all right and—

 

“Because he loves you and it's tearing him apart. He can't tell you and he can't live with his feelings any more. He went to _Gino's_ because he can't face you.”

 

Vertigo washed through him, stopping the breath in his throat. No...no.... He knew Hutch better than he knew himself. Of course Hutch loved him, but not....

 

A hand fell on his arm, and he realized Adams was standing in front of him.

 

“Sit down, Dave.”

 

He shook off the hand and moved back a step. “Why are you saying these things?” _...liar...liar.... Don't say these things to me._

 

“Because you need to know the truth. If you go to him, you have to do it honestly. I can't let you do something that might destroy him. He doesn't need your anger or your pity; he needs your love. But if you can't give that to him freely and willingly, then don't go.”

 

Willingly? Love? All the implications of the other cop's words slammed home, nearly knocking him from his feet. The foundations of his world rocked and slipped out of alignment. _Holy Mother of God!_ There was no way to deal with this, especially in front of a stranger.

 

“Get out.” His voice came in a whisper. He felt numb and drained, wanting to be alone.

 

“I need to know what you're going to do.”

 

He looked at Adams in confusion. The handsome face revealed nothing, the tone of voice triggered a sudden suspicion in Starsky's mind. Who was this man? Why was he involving himself?

 

“Where do you figure in this? I mean, you hardly know us. What are you getting out of it?”

 

 

“Nothing.” Adams turned away, but not before Starsky saw the flicker of emotion in his eyes.

 

“Like hell! It's just occurred to me that you never told me what you were doing in that bar.”

 

“It doesn't matter.”

 

“Oh, yes, it matters. How'd you know Hutch was gonna be there? And how come you're so interested in what I'm gonna do?”

 

Adams stopped by the end of the sofa, fingering the serape draped across the back. “I didn't know Hutch was going to be there. But I do know he'll go back, if he doesn't get what he needs from you or...from someone else who cares about him”

 

“Like you, for instance?” He snapped the question before he was aware of the knowledge that made it valid. He also instantly realized his assumption rang true, Blind rage engulfed him.

 

“He's going to destroy himself if someone doesn't do something. It's you he wants, but if you can't or won't accept what that means....” The broad shoulders shrugged, finishing his train of thought.

 

“You goddamned faggot. You lay a hand on him and I'll—“

 

“What?” Adams turned to face him, anger in his eyes. “Kill me? Get me fired? Try it! I didn't have to come over here tonight. I could have stayed with Ken—he wanted me to—and you'd have never known. But I had to give you a chance. He loves you! Don't you understand what that means? Or is your macho pride so important that you can let him go under rather than take on the responsibility for that love? Tell me, because I'm going back over there if you don't. And you won't stop me.”

 

Starsky recognized the determination in the man. His chest constricted in fear. He had no idea what he was going to do once he got to Hutch's, but he was going.

 

He stalked into the bedroom and snatched a jacket from the closet. Adams was still standing by the sofa when he returned. The older man's shoulders were slumped in tiredness and his eyes looked haunted. Starsky slipped on the jacket and stood watching him for several seconds before crossing to the door and pulling it open.

 

Without speaking, Adams walked past him onto the landing. He stopped and stared out into the night for a few moments and then shrugged. “Be careful, Dave,” he said quietly and started down the steps.

 

Starsky opened his mouth to tell him what he could do with his concern, but thought better of it. Like Adams had said, he hadn't had to tell him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The car was cold. Starsky huddled down in his jacket and tried not to shiver. He'd been sitting here in front of Hutch's apartment for half an hour and still couldn't make himself go up to him. He was afraid and knew it. But there were a thousand things he didn't know, things he should've asked Adams, he supposed. Only he couldn't have. Adams was a stranger, not part of his life or Hutch's. Anger surfaced as he remembered. _And you won't stop me._ Like hell he wouldn't! Had. But for how long? And he felt the sickness settle in his stomach again.

 

What in God's name was he going to do? All the rules had changed suddenly, and he didn't know how to play the game. Or even what the game was. But for one of the few times in his life he realized he had to think and think clearly before acting. Adams was right about that. He couldn't just go barging in and shout or joke his way through this. Too much was at stake even for a small margin of error. But how was he to go about this? Where did he start?

 

Hutch. Hutch loved him. That was a fact of life, so basic to existence that he never thought about it, never questioned its depth or strength. But somehow that love had changed, had become more...or was it less? He pushed away an encroaching sense of unreality. There was no use pretending things were the same as before or ever would be again. No matter what he decided, the future was going to be far different from anything he'd planned. And he was terrified.

 

How had this happened? How had such a fundamental upheaval taken place without his knowledge? Just this evening he'd been wondering at the change in Hutch over the last few months, but this possibility had never entered his mind. Or had he really been as ignorant as he believed? Hadn't he seen the way Hutch had looked at him? Of course he had. Somewhere below consciousness he'd known he didn't want to face the answers to these questions. Even now, he wanted to shove the knowledge back into a dark room and bolt the door. But there was no way to do that. All the doors were ajar and the locks broken.

 

He stared up at the blank windows of the apartment. Was Hutch asleep? Or was he sitting there in the dark, alone and afraid? ...he can't face you. A bitterness seeped into his soul at the thought of Hutch sharing his inner most secrets with Adams. _What's happened to us, Hutch?_

 

What if he couldn't accept this change in their lives? He didn't pretend ignorance or shock. It wasn't that. A street kid learned the facts of life at an early age. Not all the tough, dangerous punks he'd grown up with had been women lovers. And he'd been the youngest in his gang. But those experiences hadn't figured in the real world. Certainly had nothing to do with Hutch—his golden-haired, untouched Hutch.

 

 _Ken was in Gino's to make a connection, a date with a man._ A date with a man. Any man. A stranger. The thought burned like gall, tearing at his sanity. Not Hutch. Not his fastidious, particular, clean Hutch.

 

He wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel and squeezed them bloodless.

 

 _...he'll go back...._ Never, never! And he could stop him. _...It's you he wants...._

 

He loved Hutch, loved him more than he'd ever loved anyone—no limits. There was no imagining life without him, or with only a part of him. Suddenly, Vanessa was in his mind, the one he had silently battled for possession of Hutch. And he had triumphed, had reveled in his victory, had felt no sorrow at her death—only a final relief that she was gone for good. Since then he'd had Hutch more or less to himself, and he was honest enough to admit he liked it that way. Now? The undeniably handsome face of Brett Adams appeared before him. _I could've stayed with Ken—he wanted me to...._ The threat was obvious and real. How could he stand aside and see another man take his place?

 

 _You have no idea what you're getting into._ No, probably not.

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

He had climbed these stairs a thousand times—when he'd been frantic with fear, dead tired from overwork, happy, discouraged, bored, grief stricken—but never had they been so steep. Never had his legs been so reluctant or his feet so clumsy.

 

Reaching the landing at last, he hesitated only fractionally before fishing the key from above the door and inserting it in the lock, then pocketed the key. They needed no unexpected visitors this night.

 

The door swung inward on muted darkness. A bulb burned in the bathroom, its brightness splashing outward a few feet and then diffusing softly throughout the rest of the apartment. All the corners remained in darkness, hidden places of secrets. The myriad of hanging plants cast long, twisted shadows across the floor and ceiling, creating a surrealistic tapestry of black and gray. He shuddered involuntarily, almost afraid to step into this suddenly unfamiliar place. His gaze darted about the room. Hutch was here; he could feel his presence even though he had no visible proof.

 

“Hutch?” he called softly and stepped inside, shutting and locking the door. “Where are you?”

 

A shadow detached itself from the darkness of the kitchen and moved forward. Light found the fair hair and invaded it, making it glow with a radiance of its own. Hutch said nothing.

 

Starsky walked toward him a few feet and halted, unsure again. What the hell was he supposed to say? _A guy came to see me tonight and told me you're gay? That true?_

 

Hutch stood completely still, a gray and white apparition of stone. His eyes reflected the diffused light, pale and sightless like the marble eyes of those Greek statues in the museum. Shadows planed his face in the sharp angles of suffering.

 

 _Ah, babe! What've you done to yourself?_ A tight core of something painful and ugly dissolved within him, swept away on a tide of love and tenderness. This wasn't going to be so difficult after all.

 

He raised one hand in an open gesture of acceptance and smiled. “Thought you could use a little late night company. Got any beer?”

 

The statue crumbled, shattered into fragments of moving light and darkness as Hutch turned away. The open refrigerator silhouetted him briefly and then he was standing in front of Starsky holding out the cold brown bottle. Here, in the clearer illumination, Starsky could see the deep lines of tiredness that marred his face, as well as the faint, pale stubble which glistened on the unshaven cheeks. The sensitive mouth was drawn tight and a muscle fluttered at the side of his mouth in response to the clenched jaw. A man ready to explode...or implode. Starsky could feel the tension crackling with almost visible force.

 

The forgotten bottle chilled his fingers, and he raised it to take a long swallow. Lowering it, he used it to gesture at the dark room. “Saving money?”

 

Still not speaking, Hutch crossed to the floor lamp and turned it on. This brighter illumination banished the dimness, revealing everything in its familiar context. Starsky relaxed some and moved over to the sofa. Setting the bottle on the coffee table, he stripped off his jacket, tossed it on the back of the sofa, and sat down. Hutch remained by the lamp, staring off into the darkness.

 

“Sit down, Hutch.” Starsky spoke quietly, but his partner jumped as though startled by a sudden loud noise.

 

Hutch turned to him then, meeting his eyes. But he was withdrawn and unreachable. Starsky knew he had to move slowly. The wrong word now could wreak irreparable damage. But he had to break down the barriers Hutch had placed between them.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked carefully.

 

The haggard face blanched a sickly gray and then flushed with color. Hutch was across the room and through the door which led onto a small sundeck so quickly that Starsky had no time to react. He stared after him in silence. What did he do now? Retrieving his jacket, he stood up and followed Hutch.

 

*************

*************

 

The porch was cold in the damp fog night brought at this time of year. He wan't dressed for the weather, but he welcomed the chill which settled on him, gaining a small measure of peace in the dark stillness. There was nothing to see from here, and he was content to stare at the emptiness.

 

So close. The words had set there in his mouth, eager to be released, demanding expression, begging him for freedom. But he had swallowed them frantically, turning away, running for safety. _Not yet. Not now. Not ever?_

 

The screen door squealed in protest as it was pushed outward, slamming shut with a series of dull thuds. Soft footsteps approached and stopped at his side. _Please, God. Make him leave. Make him go away, now. No more. Not tonight. Give me time. Help me!_

 

“It's cold out here.”

 

He shuddered, not from the cold, and nodded stiffly. His voice was beyond reach, hiding with its secrets.

 

A jacket was draped around his shoulders, tugged into place, and held by gentle hands. He clenched his teeth, biting down on a gasp of pain.

 

The hands slid down his arms and reached forward in a loose embrace. Waves of heat washed through him as the body pressed close.

 

“It's okay, you know.”

 

The words came muffled, spoken into his shoulder. He could feel the weight of the head resting against him.

 

_Not okay. Never, never okay again._

 

 _Don't lie to yourself. Lie...lies...._ Could one man's truth be another man's lie? A sense of onrushing disaster overcame him, bowing his shoulders, wiping away all hope of salvation. From a far distance he heard himself speak. “I love you.”

 

Released at last, the words of destruction fell heavy and lifeless into the night.

 

The arms tightened around him.

 

“I know.”

 

“Do you? I don't think so, or you wouldn't be here.”

 

“Wouldn't I?”

 

“Go home.” _Save me...save yourself...._

 

“Can't.”

 

Silence descended again, broken finally by the slight rustle of skin on fabric as Starsky lifted his hand. “Hutch, I meant what I said. It really is okay. I love you, too, you know—no limits.”

 

“Don't! Oh, Starsk, don't say that to me. You don't know...you....”

 

“Hey!”

 

And he was being turned to face the one person he never wanted to stop looking at and the one person he couldn't afford the see. He lowered his head and closed his eyes.

 

A hand brushed across his cheek. Tremors shook him from head to foot. Out. He had to get out. But the power of movement was no longer his. The hand was back, gently lifting his face, caressing, feeding warmth and life to his chilled skin. And suddenly the warmth was fire as a mouth, infinitely tender and soft, covered his own in the briefest of kisses.

 

His eyes flew open in shock to be met by shining love in those facing him across mere inches of space.

 

“No limits, babe.”

 

The breath caught in his throat, and for a moment he was sure he was going to faint. The light coming through the window from inside danced and shimmered as though held by an unsteady hand, and then he realized he was crying, the tears slipping unheeded down his face. “Starsk?” he said in a small, wondering voice.

 

“Yep, just me,” came the slightly husky reply.

 

“Oh, god,” he managed to whisper as he was pulled forward into the arms he had wanted to hold him for so long. The sobs took him then, all the months of pent up emotions pouring forth in a violent storm that rocked him to the foundations of his being. But he was safe now, safe to let go, safe to hold on. Gradually, the tears subsided, but still he clung to the man he thought lost to him forever.

 

Eventually, he realized that Starsky was shivering. A flash of guilt loosened his grip and moved him back a step. “You're cold.”

 

The blue eyes, glittering with suspicious moisture, laughed up at him. “I'm not complaining.”

 

Hutch returned the smile and ruffled the dark curls, letting his fingers linger in the soft mass for a few moments as wonder overcame him once more. “You always complain,” he said in quiet abstraction.

 

“Come on, Lief Erikson, let's go inside. We underprivileged city types can't take all this fresh air.”

 

Hutch dropped his hand to Starsky's arm, stopping him as he turned toward the door. “Starsk, you can't do this without knowing, I—“

 

“I know,” Starsky reached out to brush at the remaining dampness on his face. “But you can talk all you want—inside. Okay?”

 

Hutch smiled and let him go, remaining where he was. A deep sense of humbleness claimed him as he watched Starsky move through the door and into the room beyond. A gift, precious beyond compare, had been handed to him. What right did he have to such love?

 

“Hutch? You gonna stay out there all night?” Starsky called from the sofa. “You're gonna turn into an icicle.”

 

He closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He pulled open the door.

 

************

************

 

Starsky glanced up at the sound of the door's squeak and smiled as Hutch walked into the living room, bringing a touch of the cold outside air with him. There were splotches of color high on each cheek, and the blond hair was slightly tousled. He looked like those pictures of the smiling Aspen set—at home after a day on the slopes—they used to advertise the expensive liqueurs. Except he wasn't smiling. A small frown creased his forehead and his eyes were serious. He stood just inside the room, silent and tense once more.

 

Trusting his instincts, Starsky rose to his feet and closed the distance between them. He stopped in front of Hutch, not touching him, but near enough to feel the warmth emanating from his body. The wide blue eyes stared into his, searching, unblinking.

 

“I'm still here,” Starsky said quietly. “No more running.”

 

“How did you know?”

 

The question wasn't completely unexpected, but Starsky wasn't sure how to answer. He didn't want to drag a third party into their lives at this point, and Brett Adams still caused feelings of resentment which had no place in this moment. However, there was no place for lies here, either. He wished he could say _Because I know you._ Instead he said, “Adams.”

 

Hot color rushed into Hutch's face, and he bowed his head for a moment, then raised it again to meet Starsky's eyes.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“I'm not.” And he wasn't, not for the knowledge, at least. As far as the rest of it...that could wait.

 

“Starsk, I...I don't know what to say...how to....” The husky voice faltered.

 

“You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. It doesn't matter.” Which wasn't exactly true, but close enough that it made no difference right now. He placed a hand on either side of the taut face and moved up against Hutch. “It really doesn't matter.”

 

“You make it sound so easy.”

 

“It is easy, babe,” he murmured and placed his lips against Hutch's, pressing close. With a soft moan, the tense mouth melted, opening hungrily to his probing tongue. As strong arms encircled him and pulled him even closer, Starsky knew a flash-second of fear. No way back. But then he was drowning in the touch and smell and taste of desire. Thought fled, and he gave himself up to the heat sliding like quicksilver along his veins—sweet fire that consumed all but love.

 

Gasping for breath and shaking with need, he buried his face in Hutch's neck. Warm lips moved against his temple, dropping alternate kisses and words of love, which blended effortlessly into the pounding rhythm of his blood. Hands stroked his back, trailing paths of flame through the thin barrier of his shirt. He moved his tongue along the strong neck, relishing the salty taste of sweat-dampened flesh. Hutch shuddered and pushed him away slightly. He raised his head and stared into smoke-blue fire.

 

From somewhere he found his voice. “We gonna stand here all night?”

 

The fire leaped higher and then was banked.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

He leaned forward and planted a hard, demanding kiss on the pliant mouth and then drew back, smiling. “What do you think?”

 

Hutch searched his eyes for a full minute before answering. “I think you're crazy and I love you” And abruptly he was gone, crossing to the bathroom. Only when he was inside with the door half-way closed did he lean back into the living room and call, “I'm gonna take a shower. Be out in a minute.”

 

Then the door slammed and Starsky was left standing with his mouth open. A shower? Now? He groaned aloud in frustration. Hutch had a lot to learn about timing. Cleanliness might be next to godliness, but.... Starsky shrugged and grinned. What the hell? He picked up his jacket that had fallen unnoticed to the floor and shook his head. Somethings never changed. Hutch would demand a shower as his last request before execution.

 

*************

*************

 

The shower sprayed him with sharp pins. He stood beneath the cascading water for minute after minute, the dirt and smell of fear this night had brought falling away from his body and mind. Starsky probably wouldn't understand this need to cleanse himself, but it was important. There must be nothing to taint their love, and the odor of _Gino's_ still clung to his skin—a sordid, cheap smell that was a constant reminder of how close he had come to destroying the only thing of value in his life.

 

He picked up the bottle of shampoo with a shaking hand and squirted soap onto his hair.

 

Starsky loved him. He felt almost delirious with the new meaning of that thought. Who would have believed it? He hadn't. Still wondered if it was all some wish-fulfillment dream. He remembered the warm, eager body in his arms and knew if this were a dream, he never wanted to wake up.

 

Hair rinsed, he turned off the faucets and stepped from the tub, dripping heedlessly onto the bath mat. He toweled himself dry and stood unmoving before the steam-clouded mirror. The hazy, distorted image of a tall blond man stared back at him. He experienced a disturbing moment of disorientation, as though he were invisible and merely observing a stranger about whom he recognized nothing familiar. The blurred figure leaned forward and wiped the mirror clear, and he was himself again. But the feeling of estrangement remained. Who was he? What had he become?

 

He touched a hand to one cheek, feeling the beard stubble beneath his fingers, and automatically reached for his razor and shaving cream. He watched himself spread white lather over his face and stroke it off with the razor. The sense of unreality was strong. If he shaved off his mustache, would he wake up in the morning to find it there again? He hesitated, almost tempted to try the experiment, but Starsky was waiting for him on the other side of the door—real and alive. And suddenly he was aware of the passing time as well as a growing nervousness. He finished his face, brushed his teeth, and finger-combed his hair out of his eyes. Nothing left to do.

 

A knot of fear gathered in his stomach. What if he were wrong? What if Starsky had changed his mind or was only here out of pity? What if....

 

All at once his nakedness seemed a hideous presumption. There had been a time—an eternity ago—when he had thought nothing of Starsky seeing him undressed. He had attached no more meaning to it than he had to stripping in high school gym. But for the past year and a half he hadn't dared risk the betrayal of his secret. And now? Now his nakedness would be an irrevocable declaration of all that he had kept hidden for so long.

 

The taste and feel of Starsky's mouth invaded his senses. Surely that promise hadn't been imagined. But what if?

 

He picked up the damp towel, securing it around his hips, and switched off the light. The door swung open on total darkness. For a moment he stood absolutely still, letting his eyes adjust.

 

“Starsk?” he called hesitantly.

 

“Over here,” came the muted reply from the direction of the bed.

 

Slowly, heart in throat, he made his way across the room, skirting the familiar obstacles. He stopped at the foot of the bed, unable to think of anything to say and afraid to take any action.

 

“It's about time.” The lightness in Starsky's voice sounded forced. “Thought maybe you'd drowned.”

 

He moved to the side of the bed, desperately searching for words, but his thought processes froze, leaving him bereft of all direction. He felt impossibly awkward and shy.

 

A hand reached out from the darkness and found his towel-draped abdomen. A shock wave of sensation raced through him at the touch, but before he could do more than gasp in reaction, the towel was gone and he was being pulled onto the bed.

 

“Like I said before, you gonna to stand there all night?”

 

The words were spoken softly, caressing his ears with warmth as the warmth of the hands caressed his body.

 

Without quite knowing how, he found himself lying full length on the smooth expanse of sheet, half covered by the living heat of Starsky.

 

Fear had a strangle-hold on him, clenching his hands into fists, bunching every muscle in hard knots of tension. Starsky hovered over him, propped on elbows, waiting. Here. Here was where he'd wanted to be for all these months, and yet now that he was, he couldn't...couldn't....

 

“Wanna neck, shweetheart?” Starsky whispered in his best Bogart fashion.

 

And he found himself laughing, the barriers falling as though made of insubstantial mist. _Oh, yes...._ He placed the fingers of one hand on Starsky's face, barely touching his mouth. He felt more than heard the soft sigh that followed. And then the lips were moving against his, kisses falling like gentle rain on his parched soul. His arms encircled Starsky and drew him down. Fingers tangled in his hair, turning his head to meet the open mouth.

 

But even as he drank in the sweet taste of this man he loved, some part of his mind continued apart from the ecstasy of his body. With eyes closed, he watched his hands move down the supple muscles of back to cup the firm buttocks. He felt his own cock lengthen and swell, pressing with hard demand against Starsky's equally aroused flesh. His body moved restlessly, wanting more, now. Effortlessly, he pushed Starsky over, wanting to lose himself in the fire licking through his body, wanted to close the gap between thought and deed. With urgent hands he stroked the soft chest hair and moved down its path to his abdomen. His mouth followed his hands, lapping at the salty skin, accepting the soft moans which greeted his ears as proof of his actions. Slowly, deliberately, he placed a hand around the straining shaft and smiled humorlessly at Starsky's gasp of pleasure and the upward thrust of his hips. Lowering his head, he took the velvet tip into his mouth, rolling his tongue around it, tasting the sharp-sweet smell of man. And suddenly he was whole, not thinking, only feeling—fingers caressing his face, hard flesh in his mouth, blood coursing through his veins, words of love and demand falling through his mind, hot gushing fountain exploding down his throat, hands lifting his head, arms pulling him forward in a tight embrace, sweat-soaked chest heaving, lips dropping kisses on his eyelids, and shaky laughter.

 

“How long have you been holding out on me?” Starsky arms tightened around him. “You'd better have one hell of a good answer.”

 

And he was being kissed thoroughly. Starsky moved slowly, taking his time, building the fire with unhurried hands and mouth. Hutch surrendered to the flames, crying out in glorious pain as he was consumed.

 

************

************

 

FRIDAY NIGHT/SATURDAY EARLY

 

Hutch was asleep, his steady breathing a peaceful sound in the darkness. The warm length of his body pressed close, one leg wrapped around his own, both arms clinging in a loose embrace. Starsky smiled, remembering how the body had moved and responded to his touch. It had all been so easy and natural, as though they were making love for the thousandth time rather than the first. And now, lying here with Hutch cradled in his arms, he was caught in an overwhelming sense of familiarity. The strong body beneath his hands was the body he had held always; the clean scent of soap and sun was the scent he had smelled forever—the essence of Hutch. A fierce possessiveness welled up, tightening his arms, quickening his breath. Hutch was a part of him, body and spirit. _Mine, only mine._

 

He felt a stirring in his groin, a desire to wake the sleeping man and restate his claim with the power of his body, but he held back. Hutch was exhausted both physically and mentally. Besides which, he knew Hutch would need to talk, have to speak the words he still wasn't sure he wanted to hear.

 

He became aware of numbness in his left arm where Hutch rested. Moving slowly, he slid his arm up, easing the head onto pillow. Dropping a kiss on the soft hair, he carefully extricated himself from the warm arms and legs, stood up by the side of the bed and stretched. The lighted dial of the clock read 4:00—that silent, dark hour when those awake had the world to themselves.

 

His stomach growled with alarming loudness, and he realized how hungry he was. He hadn't felt like food last night and now his body reminded him that it had need of more mundane nourishment than love. He padded into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator—lettuce, cheese, yogurt, raw string beans, safflower oil, Coors, milk, alfalfa sprouts, a bag of chopped dried fruit, and a jar of vegan mayonnaise. Leaving the refrigerator door open so he could see, he found the brown stuff Hutch called bread and fixed a cheese sandwich—not his favorite snack, but definitely an improvement over nothing. After he'd washed it down with half the the milk he felt better, except now he was wide awake. He'd have liked a shower, but the noise would probably wake Hutch. Maybe he could read if he kept the lamp on the dimmest setting.

 

He was quickly bored, however, and put the book down, turning off the light. The darkness closed over him again, comfortable and undemanding. He propped his feet on the coffee table and leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head.

 

He needed to figure this out. He should've hated the whole thing. ...hands of love sliding down his body, mouth of fire devouring him.... “Jesus!” he muttered as he felt himself respond to the remembered pleasure. It was as if he'd been waiting for this all his life—a blind man miraculously given sight and confronted with sunrise as his first vision of light.

 

Four hours ago he had denied any feelings of sexual attraction for his partner, but that had obviously been a lie. He knew his easy acceptance and response was based on something within himself and not just a desire to please Hutch. So, how long? Since the first day they'd met? The memory was crystal clear—the second day of Academy classes, sitting in one of those too-small desks, looking up as someone bumped a knee and swore, meeting the sky-blue eyes of the man, taking in the halo of gold hair made even lighter by the contrast of tanned skin, and smiling. Something clicked in that first second of awareness, a circuit completed, a final brush stroke applied. It made no difference that they had almost nothing in common—not family, education, likes and dislikes, personality, nor appearance—or that they argued almost as much as they laughed. None of it mattered. And like a fool, he had gone merrily on his way, never questioning why he wanted to spend every minute possible with Hutch, hated Vanessa and every other woman his partner had cared about, felt bored and restless on those days off he spent away from him, grew frantic with worry when Hutch was injured or sick, relegated the women in his own life to a back seat in his affections. For the first time he thought of Terry and what might have happened if she had lived. Where would he be right now? Whose claim would have been the stronger?

 

Thought and feeling ran together in a jumbled blur. He pushed them aside as irrelevant—Terry was a long time dead and Hutch was here. Those were the facts of life as it existed at the moment—nothing else was important.

 

He unclasped his hands, stood up, and wandered over to the front windows. Pulling aside one panel of drapery, he stared out onto the fog-shrouded street. Nothing moved. He felt somehow suspended in time, adrift in a boat on an endless sea where no sight of land marked the horizon nor compass pointed direction. And where do we go from here? Lovers in a world that's afraid of love?

 

Light flooded the room behind him. He let the drapery fall back into place and turned to find Hutch watching him from beside the floor lamp. The eyes which regarded him were still heavy with sleep, his hair mussed and almost platinum in the reflected illumination. His skin glowed gold and white, masking the hard muscles beneath surface smoothness. He allowed his own eyes to travel the length of Hutch's body, resting momentarily on the dormant genitals nestled in the curling blond pubic hair, and then moving on to the long, tanned legs. He smiled and met Hutch's eyes again. “Well?” he asked expectantly.

 

Confusion settled over the sleep-softened face. “Well what?” Hutch questioned hesitantly.

 

“Still think I'm not a good kisser?”

 

The blue eyes widened for a second and then crinkled in a delighted grin. Laughter filled the room as Hutch crossed the space between them and hugged Starsky to him in a tight embrace. “You really are crazy. Do you know that?” was murmured against his hair.

 

“So I've been told.”

 

The warm hands skimmed down his back, came to rest on his buttocks, pulling him closer. “God, you feel good.”

 

The ragged words fell into the swirling tide of his own excitement, and he reached up to capture the mouth with his, slaking an unbearable thirst. When he could speak again, he leaned his head back so he could look into Hutch's eyes. “Let's go back to bed.”

 

Stillness washed through the face and body of his partner. The arms released him, and Hutch stepped back a pace. Starsky let his own hands fall to his sides.

 

“Not yet, Starsk. I need to tell you somethings I should've said earlier. They're not very pretty, but you have to know.”

 

Starsky sighed and made an effort to curb the irritation he felt. Might as well get it over with. Hutch had a confession to make and he would listen. “Okay,” he nodded, “but let me put something on. It's chilly in here.” He shivered slightly and walked into the bedroom where he grabbed up a blanket. Returning to the living room, he flopped down in a corner of the sofa and patted the cushion beside him in invitation. “Come on. I'll behave, and you can keep me warm.”

 

Hutch smiled and shook his head, but sat down next to him. With a few deft movements Starsky had him half-lying against his chest, cradled between his legs. He spread the blanket over them, tucking it securely behind Hutch's back. Looking down on the upturned face, he grinned expansively. “So talk.”

 

“This isn't exactly what I had in mind,” Hutch complained without moving.

 

Starsky shrugged and slipped a hand beneath the blanket, letting it slide down the chest to rest on the firm abdomen.

 

“You said you'd behave,” Hutch admonished, his voice slightly breathless.

 

“I lied.”

 

“Starsk—“

 

“Shhh.” He bent his head and kissed the parted lips, running his tongue along the soft inner surface and then probing deeper. Only when his teasing fingers held the hard length of a full erection and Hutch was writhing slowly in impatience, did he draw back, grinning wickedly. He raised both hands and placed them behind his head. “That's for the shower. Now you can talk.”

 

“Like hell,” Hutch growled and sat up, throwing the blanket to the floor. “Come here.”

 

Hutch grabbed him unceremoniously and stretching out on the couch, pulled him down on top of the long body. “You started this, now finish it.”

 

“Thought you wanted to talk,” Starsky murmured before the hands and mouth of the man beneath him made speech and thought impossible.

 

**************

**************

 

SATURDAY EARLY

 

Gray light seeped around the edges of the curtains and filtered through the back window, diluted the illumination of the lamp, filling up the corners of the room. Hutch gazed down at the curly head resting on his chest, overcome by a wave of emotion. He wanted to wrap this wonderful, crazy man in his arms and never let go, never let any danger threaten or hurt befall. He loved him so much, so much....

 

He gently brushed at the dark hair, watching the curls twine around his fingers with a life of their own. Starsky mumbled something unintelligible and snuggled closer.

 

“Are you awake?”

 

“Ummm,” came the sleepy reply.

 

“Sure?”

 

“Yeah, I'm sure. How can I sleep with you rumbling in my ear?” Starsky raised his head and glared at him. “Shut up,” he said mildly and dropped his head to its former place.

 

“What did Brett tell you?'

 

He felt the muscles in Starsky's back tense, and wondered why he was doing this. Starsky wasn't asking for explanations. But maybe that was part of the problem. He didn't want any pretense between them, any false basis of love or trust. And unless Starsky knew the worst, there would always be barriers.

 

“We're gonna do this number, huh? All right, all right.” Starsky sighed deeply, struggled off Hutch, and got to his feet.

 

Hutch sat up, wishing they could've stayed as they were. The feel of Starsky in his arms would have made it easier. Or maybe he didn't want to face the honest blue eyes.

 

Starsky yawned widely and ran his hands through his already disheveled hair. “How 'bout some coffee?” he asked, moving toward the kitchen.

 

“Starsk....”

 

“Yeah, I know, but I'm still fuzzy brained, and I take it you want me to pay attention.” He looked back and smiled. “I promise I'll listen this time, even though it seems a little late for words.”

 

So matter-of-fact and calm. How had that happened? He remembered the fears of these last months as someone else's experience. It seemed impossible now that there had ever been any doubt, and yet less than five hours earlier he had been sure his life was falling apart, never to be rebuilt. And maybe it had.

 

He watched Starsky move about the kitchen, preparing coffee, and felt a cloud of depression descend upon him. What had he done? Suddenly he very much needed the solidness of Starsky in his arms, the touch, the smell, the reality of his love. A dark void threatened and he cried out for the only source of salvation.

 

“Starsk....”

 

His voice was little more than a whisper, but something of its desperation must have reached across the room, because Starsky turned and immediately set aside the canister he was opening. In a few quick strides he was beside him, holding him tightly, and driving away the suffocating blackness.

 

“It's okay, babe. Everything's okay. Shhh.... I'm here.”

 

_Enfolded, safe, loved, protected, safe,... Never alone, never again, here, now, always, forever...._

 

His panting gasps slowed at last, the crushing arms relaxed. He moved away slightly, placing a hand tentatively on Starsky's face, gazing into the dark blue eyes that smiled reassurance back at him.

 

“I love you, David Starsky. More than I'll ever be able to tell you.”

 

Starsky's eyes became completely serious in response to the almost religious fervor of the words. “I know.” He turned his lips to the hand resting on his cheek and kissed it tenderly. Shifting around, he leaned back against Hutch and pulled the rumpled blanket over them. “Talk.”

 

“What about the coffee?”

 

“It'll wait.”

 

Hutch kissed the tangled curls and breathed in the scent of warm hair. Where did he begin? With that first moment of recognition? With last night?

 

“I didn't think you'd understand. I thought you'd hate me.” _...not now...not after...._ “I hated myself. And I tried to make the feelings go away, but they wouldn't. Things just kept getting worse. I even tried to hate you, blame you for making me be something I didn't want to be.” _...forgive me, oh, god! ... please...please...I didn't mean any of it...how can you make it so easy...._ “I'm sorry.”

 

Starsky didn't acknowledge the apology, only threaded his fingers through those resting on his stomach and squeezed gently.

 

“Then I thought maybe if I made some space between us, I'd get over it.” _...night after night, pacing the floor, wanting you, needing you, afraid to pick up the phone, wanting to tell you and afraid I'd tell you...not wanting to touch you...crazy when I couldn't, screaming when you did, wanting it to never end...._ “That helped some, I guess, but it never lasted. I always seemed to find some excuse to get close to you again, and it would all start over.”

 

He paused for a moment, resting his cheek against Starsky's head, remembering. “Didn't you wonder what was wrong with me? Why I was so angry so often?”

 

“Later.”

 

Hutch sighed and leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes. “Kira was probably the worst thing I did. You loved her.” _...no, you couldn't...not anyone else...no one but me...._ “And I hated her, wanted to destroy her. All I could think was that I was losing you, and you weren't even mine.” He made a move to pull away, but was held in place by firm hands.

 

“Don't. None of that matters.” The quiet voice was steady and certain. “She was trash.”

 

“But what if she hadn't been? I'd have still gone to her, still found some way to come between you.”

 

“What ifs don't count.”

 

“Not even last night?”

 

Starsky didn't answer. What was he thinking? How much had Adams told him? How much had he known to tell?

 

“I felt crazy last night. Suddenly everything was coming down on me. You walked out of that bathroom, and I wanted you so much, and all I could do was run. But there wasn't anyplace to go. I'd heard about _Gino's_ and thought...maybe...oh, hell, I don't know what I thought.” _Liar...liar...someone to make me forget about you and what I wanted...a substitute for you...there never could be anyone...how could there...._

 

“You ever been there before?”

 

The question came hesitantly and tore through him with its implications, but he understood Starsky's need to ask and his own need to answer.

 

“No, nor anywhere else like it.”

 

But there was no easing of tension in Starsky. “What if I hadn't come over here?”

 

Something inside him slumped in defeat. “I thought what ifs didn't count.” Had he really thought to get through this with any of the ugliness undiscovered? “I don't know,” he answered at last when it was clear Starsky wasn't going to give him an out. “I'd like to say 'nothing' but I just don't know.” _Don't hate me for that...love should be perfect...no betrayal...not even thoughts of betrayal...._

 

The dark head nodded, brushing against Hutch's chest.

 

_Say something...get mad...do something...._

 

“What about Brett Adams?” There was a waiting quality in the voice.

 

 _And so, we get to it all, honest lies and deadly truths._ “What did he tell you?”

 

“Uh-uh. I want to hear it from you.”

 

 _Don't make me say it...let it be...he means nothing...._ “He was at _Gino's._ He wasn't a stranger, and I thought...thought he might make me...forget.” And the rest, “He brought me home.”

 

“Did you ask him to stay?

 

 _No...I didn't, wouldn't...did._ He let his hands fall to the couch. “Let me up.”

 

“No way.” Starsky pushed back against him more firmly. “Truth time.”

 

“Why? You already know.”

 

“Only what a stranger told me.” There was an underlying bitterness in his voice.

 

“I'm sorry,” Hutch whispered.

 

“He was coming back over here, did you know that?”

 

“No. He said he was going home to his wife and kids. Starsk....”

 

“What would you have done if it had been him at the door instead of me?”

 

Sudden anger ripped through him. He straight-armed Starsky away from him and jumped to his feet, pacing across the room. “What the hell do you want from me? Blood? Okay, okay. Yes! I wanted Brett to stay. Is that what you want to hear? I was going to go to bed with him. Let him make love to me. But he wouldn't.” He faced Starsky and made himself meet his eyes. “I can't change what I did or would have done.” His shoulders slumped in exhaustion. “Maybe you'd better go home.” He rubbed at the dull throbbing pain in his forehead and turned toward the bedroom.

 

He fell across the bed, welcoming its soft comfort as a haven. _Let it go...just let it go...everything gone, no more wondering, no more caring...._ He wished it were night.

 

Weight depressed the mattress beside him, and a hand came to rest in the middle of his back.

 

“I wanted to kill him.”

 

Starsky's voice was thick with emotion. It pried at the lethargy, and Hutch fought the hope which surged in his chest. “Why?” he whispered into the pillow, not daring to anticipate the answer.

 

“Because he had to tell me something I should've known. Because you trusted him and couldn't trust me. Because I hated him for taking my place.”

 

Hutch rolled over to stare at his partner. What was Starsky saying? “Starsk, look at me. Please.”

 

The blue eyes were wide and dark with pain.

 

“He didn't take your place. No one could. No one ever will. I don't know what any of this means—what I am—but I do know it's you I love. I don't have an excuse for what I thought about doing last night, only that nothing mattered anymore. I couldn't believe that you'd feel anything but disgust for what I felt, and it seemed like the end of the world. Can't you understand? Brett Adams means nothing to me.” _Except he gave me you, and I'll always be grateful to him for that._ “Please....” He held out his arms, imploring Starsky to believe him, to make their lives whole and real again.

 

A long shuddering sigh escaped Starsky as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Why didn't you trust me?”

 

Hutch let his arms fall to his sides and sank back against the pillows. “I couldn't. I didn't understand myself, how could I expect you to? And you always acted like you thought...gays were something unclean or at the very best poor creatures to be pitied.” _While I, of course, had no such prejudices. You're such a goddamned liar, Hutchinson._

 

Starsky's eyes had popped open at the word, protesting silently.

 

Hutch smiled bitterly and stared up at the ceiling. “Yes, Starsky, gay—as in queer. Not very welcome words, are they?” He threw one arm over his eyes, blocking out the intrusive daylight. “It's really funny, you know—about when I found out, I mean. It was right after we'd wrapped up that case on John Blain. I was being so cute with my remarks on all the time we spent together and what that might mean and then said that about you not being a good kisser. And when you asked me how I knew, it was like someone kicked me in the stomach. It's a miracle I didn't wreck the car. I couldn't believe what I was feeling. I kept telling myself it was because of the case and I'd get over it.” He chuckled in self-derision. “More fool I.”

 

Silence stretched between them. His left thigh rested against Starsky's hip, and he centered his attention on that point of contact as the only reality in the flat nothingness of the moment. _Fill up the spaces...make the time worth it.... I love you, you said and made love to me like you meant it...don't tell me that was a lie...._

 

A question surfaced in his mind, surprising him because it should have occurred to him sooner. Why? Why, if all this was such a surprise and shock to Starsky, had he accepted...no...initiated.... He couldn't possibly.... Had he? He moved his arm higher and peered at his partner from beneath its camouflage. The dark head was bowed, the shoulders hunched, his eyes focused on the floor. Understanding poured into his mind. Starsky had wanted this as badly as he had, only he was just finding out now. _You're the one who isn't sure._

 

He sat up and pulled the unresisting body into his arms, burying his face in the soft curls. “I guess we're both crazy, huh?” he whispered, a lump forming in his throat. Years wasted—no, not wasted. They'd been beautiful years, and he refused to negate them. But they could have been so much more. Maybe. Or maybe there really was a season to all things and life developed at its own pace. No matter. Now was here and must be recognized. And right now he had to make Starsky believe the depth of his love, show him he was committed with every facet of his being. And suddenly he knew how. It was something he'd contemplated in darkness for months. The thought sent a shiver up his spine—part fear, part excitement, but mostly desire.

 

The practical side of his mind asserted itself—planning was essential if this was to succeed. And Starsky must be convinced that everything was spontaneous. His partner lived in the moment and was much more a romantic, needing the magic unspoiled by explanations.

 

He twisted his head around so he could see the clock—7:31. “You hungry?”

 

“Ummm.” was the noncommittal reply.

 

“How about some breakfast? We'll have to go out, though—I don't have much here.”

 

“I noticed,” Starsky said dryly, sitting up straighter and smiling. “A man could starve to death.”

 

Hutch let go of him and swung his legs off the bed. “Yeah, guess I'm not exactly prepared for a siege.” He stood up, stretching with deliberate casualness. “You can shower first. Think I'll finish making the coffee you started.”

 

“Hutch?”

 

He looked down at the vulnerable face, washed pale in the morning light, and felt a wave of tenderness sweep through him. “Yeah?” he answered softly.

 

“It's gonna be okay, isn't it?”

 

 _Better than you know._ He ruffled Starsky's hair and ran a hand down a stubbled cheek. “Everything is already okay, just fine. You need a shave.” He patted the face gently and smiled. “Hurry up; I'm starved.”

 

He went into the kitchen and fiddled aimlessly with the coffee pot until he heard the shower running. Moving quickly, he turned off the lamp in the living room and fastened the shutters over the windows between the bedroom and the porch. The atmosphere was immediately transformed by the dimness of twilight. Rummaging in the chest of drawers, he found the green and white tube he'd purchased a week ago. The clerk's knowing eyes flashed through his mind, and he felt the blush of embarrassment warm his cheeks again. The son-of-a-bitch had been right, but he'd have gladly smashed his face in if he'd said a word.

 

He shut the drawer and carried the tube over to the bed, where he sat and twisted off the cap. This was the part—the necessity for something outside his own body's ability to provide—that he hated. It seemed somehow to cheapen the act, to place it in the realm of those other men and their sordid little encounters. But he wasn't stupid. He knew from the books and from instinct that the first time was going to be painful, even with help. And he had to make sure that the pain wasn't an insurmountable obstacle. Starsky would never go through with it if he knew he was hurting him.

 

Lying back on the bed, he squeezed some of the tube's contents onto his fingers and applied it methodically, shutting out all thought of what he was doing. He replaced the cap, put the tube behind the clock, and waited. He could hear Starsky singing, light-heartedly and slightly off-key. A smile touched the corners of his mouth. _Hurry up, babe. I'm getting nervous._

 

Eventually, the noises from the bathroom ceased and Starsky walked out. Hutch watched as the shadowy figure stopped and glanced around uncertainty.

 

“I lost my appetite,” he called softly.

 

Starsky turned toward him, hesitation obvious in his movements.

 

Hutch propped himself on one elbow and grinned at him. “Any objections?” _Come on, partner, I need a little help with this routine._

 

Slowly, Starsky crossed the room and stood looking down at him.

 

 _Careful, Hutchinson._ He reached out his free hand and tugged gently at the nearest arm. Starsky sank down beside him. Hutch lay back down again, still smiling. “You smell good.”

 

“It's your after shave.”

 

“I know. Come here.”

 

Starsky stretched out next to him, his clean skin cool against his own heated flesh. “Still love me?” Hutch asked quietly, running fingers absently over the smooth shaven face.

 

“I think you're gonna find out.”

 

 _Please...oh, please...._ Hutch nibbled at the corner of the mouth he loved, shifting his body so Starsky could feel the rapidly hardening proof of his desire. “It's going to be good, love. Really good,” he murmured and licked Starsky's lower lip, tasting the faint residue of shaving cream. “Kiss me.” He opened his mouth and welcomed the invading tongue, sucking its wet fire, feeding the excitement coursing through him.

 

Minutes later he knelt over the writhing body and took the swollen cock between his lips, the soft moans of pleasure filling his mind. _Almost...almost...._ With one final, lingering kiss, he pulled away and sank back on heels. _Now...._

 

Starsky's eyes opened, questioning his withdrawal, begging for more.

 

He lay down beside him again, placing a hand on the heaving chest. “Take me,” he whispered. “Make love to me.”

 

“What?”

 

“Come inside me. I want you like that.”

 

The restless hands grew still on his back as Starsky gazed unbelieving into his eyes.

 

“Please. I want to feel you, all of you, inside me, filling me up, taking me.”

 

He covered the protesting mouth with his own, shutting off any objections, making his urgency a weapon. And he was being turned, caressed and invaded, drawn back and up, centered, found. Pain ripped away any plan or pretense—cutting, killing, never ending pain. His teeth sank into his lower lip, bringing blood; tears rolled down his face; and he felt himself falling inward on red-blotched darkness. _Stop!_ his mind screamed, while his mouth could only utter a strangled groan of agony. _No...no...._ The pain waxed unbearable and then suddenly diminished as a final thrust brought Starsky all the way into him. He felt his muscles contract and relax around the throbbing cock which impaled him. Hands sought out his own shrunken organ and caressed it to straining fullness again. _Make it good...want you...love you...._

 

Broken words filled his ears, but they made no sense. He moved tentatively against the pressure, feeling sharp jolts of pain again, but overlaid with a deeper ecstasy. The tears wet his face and folded arms, as the consuming body above his pulled away slowly and then entered again with a soft slap of flesh on flesh. The thrusts became longer and more deliberate and then shortened and hardened as the rhythm became more demanding and conclusive. _Now...yes, oh, yes!...take me...make me yours...now and forever...never leave...never...._ He didn't know if he spoke aloud or not and he didn't care. All importance in the universe spiraled down to the pounding urgency of now. Almost in slow motion his being split apart, shattered into a million fragments that floated away on the cries of his release. Gasping, smothering in the pillow pressed against his face, he felt a deep throb within, again and again, the hot liquid of his possession surging into him, baptizing his soul. And then Starsky was lying across his back, shuddering uncontrollably. With super human strength he turned the leaden weight of his head to one side and gulped air.

 

Unmeasured minutes later the weight on top of him lifted. He felt too drained to move or hear or think, but something was summoning him, calling him back, demanding his attention.

 

“...did you...why...make...hurt you.... Hutch! Goddamn you, answer me!”

 

Hands shook him roughly, and he opened his eyes to see Starsky crouched beside him, face contorted with barely suppressed tears. _Nothing to cry about, babe. All okay, wonderful._

 

He smiled and reached out to touch the foot nearest him. Everything just perfect. “Love you,” he murmured and closed his eyes again. “Only yours, always.”

 

“My God! Hutch...I.... Do you know what.... Oh, shit! You bastard! You goddamned bastard! Look at me!”

 

He was grabbed by trembling hands and manhandled into a sitting position. His eyes flew open in surprise to be confronted by glittering blue fury.

 

“What kind of sick game are you playing?” The words were low and deadly.

 

Hutch shook his head in confusion. “What's wrong?”

 

“Did you really think I'd be convinced of anything by hurting you? What kind of insane way is that to prove you love me? It makes me feel like shit, filthy, stinkin' shit!”

 

Cold sickness settled in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't supposed to happen. “Starsk, I just—“

 

“I know what you just. You just thought I'd be so goddamned stupid I'd think that stickin' my cock up your ass made me some kind of prize stud and I wouldn't care about anything else!”

 

“Don't, please don't. I didn't mean—“

 

“Ahh, you make me sick!”

 

And he was off the bed, gathering up his clothes, and heading for the bathroom.

 

Hutch sat frozen, unable to believe what had happened. Panic seized him. What to do? What to say? He scrambled to his feet and ran after Starsky, shoving the closing door open with frantic strength.

 

“It wasn't like that, Starsk. I never—“

 

“Leave me alone.” Starsky turned away, pale and haggard, to lean against the sink.

 

“No! You're not gonna say those things to me and just walk away.” Anger-buoyed determination surfaced. “Who the hell do you think you are, coming on like some outraged victim? What's the matter? Has it finally hit home that what we have here is a homosexual relationship? That you fucked a guy and loved it?” The accusations rang out, bouncing off the tile like ricochet bullets.

 

Starsky's wounded eyes met his in the mirror. “Why?”

 

“Because that's what it is, buddy—plain, simple language.”

 

The mirror image turned, becoming living challenge. Hutch felt trapped by the intensity of the searching gaze.

 

“Why do you always play these numbers on me? I love you, Hutch. I love making love to you. Why can't you let it be honest? I felt like God when I was fucking you, 'cause I thought you wanted me out of love.”

 

“I did,” Hutch asserted quickly, fighting against what was coming.

 

“No. You wanted me to prove that those words you keep throwing around are true. It could've been anyone. I wasn't important.”

 

 _Not true...not true...no one else...._ “You don't believe that,” he whispered shakily. “I love you, and I wanted you to know beyond any doubts. Maybe I did the wrong thing, but I did it because I love you. And you liked it,” he finished lamely.

 

“Yes,” Starsky admitted quietly, dropping his chin onto his chest, “and I hate myself for that. I hurt you and I enjoyed hurting you. And I hated you for wanting me to hurt you. That's not lovel You said you're mine, but I've never felt less like you belong to me.”

 

The cold wind of death touched his heart. _Which one of us is killing with his lies or his truths?_ “Listen to us, Starsk—I love you, you love me. And we're tearing each other apart.”

 

Starsky looked at him again, hurting, wanting, afraid. Hutch reached out a tentative hand and placed it on the drawn face, rubbing his thumb lightly across the mouth. “Me and thee, love,” he murmured. “That's all that really matters, isn't it?” _Please...._

 

A second's hesitation, and Starsky was in his arms, crushing him, warming him, replacing death with life. One more chance—no more mistakes.

 

Several minutes passed while they clung together and Hutch thanked whatever god had taken pity on them. A soft chuckle recalled his attention to the moment. “What?” he questioned, smiling.

 

“You're sticky.”

 

He felt a hand slip between them and his groin muscles tighten.

 

“So? What's funny about that?” Vaguely he was aware that a few hours ago he'd have died of embarrassment at the words. Now he felt the faint stirrings of arousal.

 

“Oh, nothing, I guess,” Starsky commented in casual tones, leaning back to fix him with a look of detached interest, “'cept I never thought I'd be telling Mr. Clean he needs a shower.”

 

“Idiot!” He grinned and slapped him hard on the ass. Let it always be this easy. “Want to help?”

 

“We gotta be at work in two hours.”

 

“All the more reason to lend a hand. You know how slow I am.”

 

“Yeah, I remember.”

 

He kissed the lop-sided smile and shoved Starsky toward the tub. “You can give me some pointers.” He turned on the faucets, adjusting the temperature as the water cascaded over his outstretched hand.

 

Starsky's arms encircled his waist, drawing his close. “We both got a lot to learn, babe.”

 

He leaned back into the embrace for a few seconds, letting the contentment of now wash through him, and then pulled away, stepping into the tub. “School's in session, partner—what's the first lesson?”

 

~~~~~~~~~

 

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

 

The steady swish-thwank, swish-thwank of the windshield wipers remained on the periphery of his awareness, a part of the grayness and rain. From the warm, dry island of the Torino, he stared out at the damp world. Like certain fabric, L.A. turned dark and unattractive when washed. Not accustomed to water, the city huddled in misery under the leaden skies.

 

Hutch shivered and cast a sidelong glance at his partner, who sat hunched over the steering wheel. Starsky's face was solemn, reflecting his dislike of the rain. They made a good pair—L.A. and Starsky—neither appreciative of nature's gift. Not that he enjoyed it much himself. He'd lived in Southern California long enough to feel victimized by weather other than the publicist's ideal. The only good thing about rain was it cleared the sidewalks. No one he knew even owned an umbrella, let alone used one—including the crooks. Everyone knew the only way to deal with the rain was to stay inside until it ended. Of course, that meant the eight hours of patrol dragged by on feet of boredom.

 

Three more hours. He scrunched down a little further into the seat, trying to stretch the muscles in his legs. Why didn't some design wizard find a way to create leg room on the passenger side of cars?

 

And it wasn't working. Nothing could block the thoughts for long. If only they had something to do or talk about. It was strange, this silence—not the comfortable quietness because they didn't need to talk, nor the strained non-speaking of anger. He wanted to talk, to babble on and on, to tell everything that new lovers always do. But there wasn't anything he could say that Starsky didn't already know. All the exciting new little personal discoveries had been made years ago under the guise of friendship. Now the only things remaining were those deep secrets of self, demanding dark of night.

 

Starsky yawned widely and drummed his hand on the steering wheel in impatience as the light remained red against him. Hutch smiled and turned his gaze out the side window. His partner was always like this on a rain-nothing day—the cat searching for a door into summer. They probably should have stayed at headquarters and caught up on reports. He sobered at the thought. Was it always going to be so difficult? The few minutes they'd spent in the squad room at the beginning of shift had been almost unbearable. Even though he knew there was no outside sign, he'd felt as though a flashing neon marquee emblazoned his forehead— _Starsky and Hutch Are Lovers._ And he knew he'd blushed like a school boy when Jenkins made a sly remark about another late night. Starsky hadn't so much as blinked in reaction, just grinned and said something about wishes and dreamers—mixing his metaphors again. Where did he get that total lack of self-consciousness? There was an elemental honesty in Starsky that was almost frightening at times, and yet it was a large part of why Hutch loved him so much. The man never lied to himself and expected the same from anyone about whom he cared. Not an easy ideal to live up to, especially, if one found lies more acceptable than truth.

 

A sudden jolt brought him back to the present.

 

“Goddamned moron! Wish I had a ticket book.”

 

Hutch watched the pale blue mustang speed off down the rain-slicked street and then looked at Starsky. “How about dinner?”

 

The leather jacketed shoulders shrugged indifferently. Hutch frowned, uncertain now that his partner's silence was because of the weather. Maybe he'd been thinking, too.

 

Starsky met his eyes and flashed him a quick grin. “Good idea, a little coffee might wake me up.”

 

The knot in Hutch's chest loosened, and he smiled back. “Where?”

 

“Huggy's is close. He could probably use the business.”

 

“Huggy's?” For some reason the idea bothered him. In fact, he definitely did not want to go to _The Pits._

 

“Something wrong?” Starsky asked quietly.

 

“No, nothing. Huggy's is fine.” Was this the way it was going to be from now on? Hiding, avoiding everyone they knew? Embarrassed...ashamed? He sighed inaudibly and returned his gaze to the passing scene. The street lights battled the gathering darkness, bouncing madly from wet asphalt to glass windows and back again. Starsky maneuvered the Torino into the one available parking space half a block from _The Pits_ and shut off the engine. Hutch sat up and started to open the door. A hand fell lightly on his shoulder, and he looked around to find Starsky staring at him intently through the dusk. “What?”

 

The dark head moved in a slight shake of negation as the fingers tightened fractionally. “Nothin'. Let's go.”

 

~~~~~

 

SATURDAY EARLY EVENING

 

 _The Pits_ was brightly lit as if in protest against the early night brought on by the rain. Several tables were occupied and the bar stools were full. Some of the customers looked as though they'd been here since early morning and were planning to remain for the evening.

 

Huggy jerked his head in greeting, and continued drawing beer from the tap. No one else paid them any attention, except a frowzy red-head who smiled coyly and straightened to bring her rather prominent bust line into greater prominence. Hutch looked away from her obvious gesture, grimacing in distaste. Tramp. His step faltered slightly. Or just female?

 

They found an empty booth near the back and sat, side by side, as they had sat how many thousands of times before. Before—the operative word. Before the world had turned inside out. Before reality had become the dream or dream the reality. He wasn't sure which. Or perhaps it was neither. Perhaps there was no reality or dream, just a half-way limbo where everything looked familiar but was unknown.

 

He shook his head to break the confused circle of thoughts and caught Starsky's eyes on him, dark, worried. “More people than I figured,” he offered with a smile and a shrug.

 

Starsky remained somber, but moved a foot under the table so that one leg touched his own lightly. The contact warmed him, bringing reassurance. He looked into the blue eyes and realized something he'd known forever, but had never put into specific thoughts—Starsky's eyes were beautiful, deep, expressive, reflecting every mood and feeling, true windows of the soul.

 

“Hey, my men, what it is?”

 

Huggy slid onto the seat opposite, folding his thin body by stages to lean over the table.

 

Hutch reluctantly shifted his gaze to the amiable black face, faintly resentful of the interruption, but smiling to disguise his feelings.

 

“Just dinner, Hug,” Starsky said lightly. “Dull day.”

 

“Ain't it the truth. Good thing, too, if you ask me.”

 

“Why's that?” Hutch asked, forcing himself to pick up the obligation of small talk.

 

Huggy looked from one to the other and grinned. “L.A.'s finest look whipped, that's why. Been double-burnin' the candle again, huh?”

 

“We coulda been workin', y'know,” Starsky protested in mock seriousness.

 

Hutch felt the damnable flush crawl up his neck and wondered angrily if he'd ever grow up. Jesus! He was thirty-five—no, thirty-six—years old, and here he was acting like an inexperienced kid.

 

Starsky didn't seem to find any of this even faintly disconcerting. And again he felt that brief touch of envy and puzzlement. He watched as his partner and Huggy exchanged the bantering words, hearing but not registering the sense of what they were saying.

 

What if the situation had been reversed? What if it had been Starsky who had fallen in love with him? He tried to imagine his own reactions and couldn't. It was impossible to remember any time when he hadn't loved this man. A small shudder ran through him as he flashed on life without him.

 

“What's wrong with you?” he heard Huggy ask, and blinked in startlement.

 

“Nothin',” Starsky interposed quickly, sending him a look of what might have been warning. “We're both just tired and hungry.

 

Hutch smiled and added, “Yeah, Hug. Not that your conversation isn't stimulating, but we did come in here to eat.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Huggy got to his feet. “Anything you say, Mr. Po-leese-man.”

 

“That's more like it,” Starsky grinned and winked at Hutch. “What's the special?”

 

“Beef pie a la mode.”

 

“I'm afraid to ask what that is,” Hutch said carefully. “I'll have a hamburger, no onions, and water.”

 

“Make mine the a la mode and a Coke. Never had ice cream on beef pie. Sounds interesting.”

 

“Oh, God!” Hutch groaned and exchanged a long-suffering look with Huggy, who shrugged and sauntered away to place their order. “Starsk, even Huggy's not gonna serve ice cream with beef pie.”

 

Starsky looked faintly disappointed, and Hutch threw back his head in laughter, relaxed and happy and completely comfortable. _My crazy, wonderful, beautiful Starsk—I love you. You keep this whole damned world sane._

 

~~~~~~~

 

SATURDAY EVENING

 

He felt mesmerized by the lights—street lights, headlights, store windows bright with illumination—all filtered through the constant shimmer of rain. Surely he had lived all of his life within the confines of this car, a miniature world orbiting its dark star of concrete and glass. And it was a world, familiar and known. Or at least it had been up until a couple of hours ago.

 

Dinner at Huggy's had been enjoyable, making him feel nothing had really changed all that much, after all. In fact, it could have been any hour of any night over the last twelve years...almost. Coming out into the rain-splashed darkness, he'd felt secure enough to broach the subject of his car, how he needed to pick it up before it was towed away. But the rain had suddenly turned to sleet, slicing through his jacket to freeze his heart, as Starsky had fallen silent.

 

And so he remained. Hutch wondered what he was thinking, what tangled threads of truths and lies were forming patterns in his mind. Or was it his own mind that was weaving this cloth of silence? Why couldn't he find the right words to set everything in its proper perspective? But it was like grabbing at mist—the more tightly he tried to hold onto what he knew, the more empty his hands. Love was supposed to create its own plane of communication, and here he sat with no means of contacting his lover. His mind stumbled on the term. Lover—strange word. He wasn't sure he liked the sound of it. Yet, what else was there? Partner, buddy, pal, friend—none of those carried the necessary connotation, although they were all true as well. Starsk—the one word that meant all of them and more. Starsk. Friend. Lover. Partner. _I love you. What can I do to make you know that? Because for some reason you still doubt me._ They had it easy in ancient times—perform the bravest deed, bring the best gift, and love was guaranteed happily ever after. But Starsky performed his own brave deeds and there were no gifts needed.

 

He closed his eyes against the glare, letting the ever waiting depression find its own level. It was easier than fighting and less painful. Minutes passed, filled with nothing but the swish of tires on wet pavement, the muted beat of the wipers, and the occasional crackle of static from the radio. The city was dead tonight, a uniquely fit setting for his empty spirit. He was vaguely aware of something amiss in his logic, but he was incapable of sorting out the error and let the feeling fade into darkness. Maybe it didn't matter anyway.

 

*********

*********

 

SATURDAY EARLY NIGHT

 

“Where's this place?” His voice sounded inordinately loud, and he felt Hutch jump in reaction.

 

“What?”

 

“ _Gino's_ or whatever, where is it?” He hated the coldness of his voice, but couldn't seem to help it. Everything within him was repulsed by the thought of Hutch in one of those places. And talking to himself about it didn't help. He'd spent the last two hours proving that. No matter what he used as argument, it always came back to the fact that Hutch had gone there and come away with Brett Adams.

 

The handsome face rose up before him again, and he felt the sweep of anger clench his teeth. Belatedly he realized Hutch had said something he hadn't caught. “What?”

 

“I said it doesn't matter. I'll get it tomorrow.”

 

“Don't be dumb. Just tell me where it is.”

 

“Pomona on Foothill. Take the 60 to 57.” Hutch's voice was a flat monotone, conveying nothing.

 

“Right,” Starsky answered shortly, and turned the car on a street that would take him to the interchange.

 

The silence was back again, as deep as before, and no less impenetrable. He swung the car into the on-ramp and floored the accelerator to pick up speed. No one in California ever seemed to notice the rain when they drove. Or perhaps it was a type of ostrich complex—drive like the streets were dry and maybe they would be. Whatever, he merged with the sixty mile per hour traffic and put his mind on automatic. Just get there and get away. Don't think about anything else—not right now.

 

Thirty minutes later he was concentrating in earnest—the rain was much heavier near the mountains, great geysers of water shooting up from the cars ahead of him. The wipers were almost useless. Speeding along, blind and helpless, was stupid, but he didn't dare slow down. Follow the leader, and hope to God he stayed on the road.

This was unfamiliar territory, and he almost ended up on the way to Riverside at one point. Why the hell had Hutch come all the way out here? But he knew the answer to that question before he finished the thought.

 

“Take 210 East,” Hutch said quietly.

 

They were the first words he had spoken since they'd left their beat, and the tone said nothing. Starsky followed directions, and after a few miles found himself at the end of the freeway, on Foothill, a five lane highway. Route 66, he noted on a street sign. _We could just keep going, all the way across country, never look back, never come back, just the two of us._

 

He drove along the busy surface street for several minutes before Hutch spoke again.

 

“Make a u-turn at the next light. It's across the street.”

 

Starsky glanced to his left, seeing the blurred lights of a large shopping complex. There? Strange place for a gay bar. Somehow a supermarket, bank, and laundromat didn't seem to be appropriate surroundings. He pulled into the left turn lane at the next light and waited for the green arrow. _So what did you expect? A dirty back alley and code knocks?_ But he wondered what they did to keep out the housewives stopping in for a drink before or after buying the weekly groceries.

 

The light changed and he swung the car in a tight arc, feeling the tires slip on the drenched pavement. He flipped on turn indicator and slowed at the first drive leading to the center's parking lot.

 

“Further down,” Hutch said tightly. “Past the bank.”

 

Starsky shot a quick look at the man beside him. He could see the tension in the jaw line and suddenly wished they were home, in bed, where none of this made any difference.

 

Then he saw a small building set a couple of hundred yards away from the main shopping center. A discreetly lighted sign announced _Gino's_ in fancy script. Nothing else.

 

“Where's your car?” he asked, pulling into the crowded parking lot and glancing around for the unfamiliar Plymouth. He wondered why he still expected to see the dilapidated LTD, and why its presence here would have made things better.

 

“Around back,” Hutch answered in a low voice.

 

The headlights glanced off the wet metal surfaces as he drove slowly to the rear of the building. A couple was caught briefly in the path of light—two men, heads bowed against the downpour, hurriedly making their way toward the the entrance. They moved with the quick agility of the young and healthy, and Starsky became aware of a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. Spotting Hutch's green car, he pulled up behind it and stopped. He opened his mouth to speak, but found that he had nothing to say. The rain drummed down, monotonous and uncaring.

 

“Thanks,” Hutch murmured and climbed out quickly, slamming the door and making a dash for his own car.

 

Starsky watched him unlock the door and slide behind the wheel. He felt angry and frustrated and sad and empty. Mostly empty. The windowless building skulked in the darkness, a beast of prey, waiting, waiting. He shivered at the fanciful notion and wished he'd thought of something to say to Hutch.

 

The muffled roar of the Plymouth's engine came through the din of the rain, and he pulled away, making his way toward the street and home. He waited for a break in traffic, glancing in the rear view mirror. There were no lights behind him. Maybe Hutch was having car trouble, or maybe.... He clamped down on the thought and pulled out onto the street, refusing to look behind him again. He either trusted Hutch or he didn't.

 

Nevertheless, he acknowledged the relief that flooded through him a few minutes later when the Plymouth passed him. He caught a glimpse of Hutch behind the wheel, eyes front, ignoring him completely, and fought the despair which threatened to overtake him. And then he wondered why he couldn't let go of this, why he froze every time he imagined Hutch in that place with those men. Except he couldn't imagine it, not really. Hutch cruising was such an alien concept that he couldn't force his mind to grasp it. But he had been. He'd said so. Adams had said so.

 

Before he quite realized what he was doing, he had put the car into an illegal u-turn through a left-turn break and was heading back toward the bar. He wasn't sure why he was doing this, only he had to know, had to see for himself.

~~~~~~~

At first glance, the interior of the dimly lighted place looked like any other. A curved bar ran along the left wall, fronted by chrome and leather stools. Tables and chairs formed a crowded maze of most of the remaining floor space. A band ensconced on a tiny stage in the far right corner was playing a popular disco tune. Doing a pretty good job, he noted absently. A tiny dance floor took up the rest of the rear area, occupied at present by only one couple. They were good, too, he admitted, brushing rain from his shoulders and hair. Both of them were young, well dressed, and from here appeared to be good looking.

 

He let his gaze wander across the other occupants of the crowded room. There were couples and groups, and here and there a loner. Lots of laughter and movement. No one seemed to stay put for long. And hands—hands talking, touching, holding.

 

After receiving several curious looks from the men nearest him, he realized he was making himself conspicuous by just standing and staring. He made his way to the bar, found an empty stool, and sat. No one spoke to him, although he could feel their eyes on him. For the moment he ignored them, catching the bartender's attention and ordering a beer.

 

With the cold glass in hand, he watched the room in the mirror over the bar. Separated from the immediate reality of the moment, the scene played out behind him like some elaborate stage production. The actors moved in choreographed steps, meeting, parting, speaking their lines with practiced ease. And all the faces smiled—the bright hard smiles that spoke not of happiness but of disguise. Masks, he decided. He became aware of the brittle quality in the encounters he observed. Everyone had their defenses up, afraid to relax or not knowing how.

 

Focusing his eyes on the customers lined up along the bar, he was caught by the stare of the man to his left—the reserved business type, sports jacketed, handsome in a subdued sort of way, the typical man on the street with a house in the suburbs, a pleasant looking wife, dog, and a couple of kids. And, of course, any or all of that might be true, in addition to which he was gay.

 

Intrigued, Starsky swung around to face the man, meeting the direct brown eyes. Typical, atypical—how the hell did he know? The only gays he knew were street people, part of his cop world, looked upon as victims or suspects or just ignored as part of the faceless thousands who lived on the edges of his awareness. New York was a long time ago.

 

The man smiled at him, a curiously innocent smile, devoid of the coyness he'd expected. If this was a come on, it was certainly a low key one. He raised his glass, keeping eye-contact with the stranger while he drank. Lowering it to the bar, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and raised an inquiring brow.

 

The man's smile faded and he looked vaguely uncertain, as if he had misread some message.

 

Starsky shrugged and turned away to signal the bartender for another beer.

 

“Do you stop in here often?” the man asked, almost shyly looking at him in the mirror.

 

“Never,” answered Starsky shortly. “You?”

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“Nice place.”

 

“It's okay. Crowd's a little young.”

 

“Oh? Hadn't noticed.” He glanced at the mirror image of the room again and saw that the man was right. Three-fourths of the occupants were probably under thirty. He returned his gaze to the man next to him and realized he was several years older than he'd thought at first.

 

A fresh glass of beer was placed in front of him, and he dug into his jeans for money. But before he could get it out, the stranger had handed over a five to the bartender and ordered another martini for himself.

 

“My treat,” he said affably.

 

“No thanks,” Starsky declined, shoving a dollar in front of him. “I pay my own way.”

 

The man stared at the bill for a moment and then looked at him. “Can I ask you something?”

 

Starsky shrugged again and ran a finger through the condensation on his glass. “Depends.”

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

It wasn't the question he'd expected. He frowned and then swung around to look out over the room and its occupants. No mirrors this time. What was he doing here? So far all he'd seen were a bunch of ordinary people doing ordinary things. That they were all men happened to be a fact of setting. That some of those men were dancing or holding hands or occasionally kissing one another really didn't bother him, he realized. There was probably something strange about his own lack of reaction, but these people simply had nothing to do with him or his life or with Hutch. Hutch. That's why he was here—to see what Hutch had seen, to see Hutch here. But he couldn't. Never would. Hutch was real, and these smiling faces were just stage props.

 

Besides which, Hutch hated crowds of strangers—he'd feel like a caged animal in here. And suddenly he was confronted with a picture of the shining blond man—surrounded, admired, wanted, and panicked by the hands closing in and nowhere to run.

 

The dull throb of hatred filled him as he watched the men before him, men who would've touched what was his—taken him, used him, maybe even loved him—but to whom they had no right, none at all. _Mine? Yes, goddamn it!_

 

He realized the man beside him was talking again, had been for the past several moments. But he had no interest in his words. All at once he felt claustrophobic, trapped by the make believe mirth that overlaid the desperate loneliness of these people, and by the thought of Hutch as one of them.

 

Maybe some of these men needed this place, but he certainly didn't and neither did Hutch.

 

“Leaving already?”

 

He turned to stare at the man, surprised that he was still here. “Yeah. It's late.”

 

“Too bad.”

 

“No—just stupid.”

 

“What?”

 

“Never mind. Good luck.” And he was walking toward the door without a backward glance.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

SATURDAY NIGHT

 

By the time he reached Venice Place, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, barely misting the windshield. The street lights were haloed globes of yellow, almost appearing to be decorations rather than sources of illumination. He pulled the Torino into the curb, and climbed out, looking around for Hutch's car. The green Plymouth was not in evidence, although Hutch would surely be home by now. But a small cloud of fear gathered in his chest as he remembered the long stretches of deserted freeway and the torrential downpour out there in the canyons. Could something have happened? An accident no one had seen or reported?

 

He hurried up the stairs and unlocked the door of the apartment, flipping on the overhead light as he entered.

 

“Hutch?”

 

The word came back to him with that uniquely hollow sound of a name called into an empty room. Hutch wasn't here.

 

Starsky wandered into the bedroom and stopped, the breath catching in his throat. The black pants and blue shirt Hutch had worn today were neatly draped over a chair. He had been here. Been and gone again. Where?

 

Reaching out a hand, he touched trembling fingers to the slightly damp fabric and then sank down of the side of the bed, trying to subdue the sickness which rose in his throat. His fault. All his own goddamned fault! If he hadn't been such a stupid bastard, they'd be here where they belonged, together, making love.

 

He covered his eyes with one hand for a moment, rubbing at the pain in his temples. Then he slowly got to his feet and left the apartment, not bothering to turn off the light. Nowhere to run. Nowhere at all.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

He drove blindly through the late-night traffic, letting habit steer and brake and find his way to the empty street where he lived. He felt tired and incredibly old as he unlocked the door and entered the darkness of his apartment. It seemed strange being here, as if he'd left years ago and had forgotten it through the passage of time. But his feet knew their way to the bedroom. He turned on the lamp and began stripping off his clothes. A shower and then bed. Maybe he'd just stay there all day tomorrow. There didn't seem much point in getting up.

 

The hot, needle spray felt good, warming him some, relaxing the bunched muscles of his shoulders. But nothing could wash away the grief in his heart. It rested there, cold and heavy, a dead thing where only this morning had lived joy. He closed his eyes, letting the tears mingle with the water. Was this the price of love? This pain and emptiness? This regret? _Come back, Hutch. It doesn't matter what's happened. We'll work it out, start again._

 

Gradually, the cooling water forced him to turn off the faucets and towel himself dry. He faced his mirror image, mildly shocked by the haggard man who stared back at him. The day and a half without sleep had taken its toll. Turning away from the bloodshot eyes and drawn face, he retraced his steps to the bed and pulled back the covers, but hesitated before climbing in. The pain in his head throbbed incessantly. Maybe a couple of aspirin would help.

 

He padded into the kitchen, flipping on the fluorescent light. Rummaging in the cupboard above the sink, he found the bottle and shook out two of the pills. He drew water into a glass and swallowed the medicine with a grimace for the bitter taste.

 

As he reached for the light switch, he was distracted by an undefined sound. It was steady and somehow familiar, but he couldn't place it. Or maybe his exhausted mind was just playing tricks on him. He walked into the living room trying to locate the source, and was brought up short, almost afraid to trust his eyes. A hand was flung over one arm of the couch, slightly clenched as if the owner were holding on to some invisible support. Hutch!

 

Moving quickly, he crossed to the end of the sofa and stood gazing down at the sleeping man. The face was relaxed and at peace, very young and vulnerable. The mouth was slightly parted, and Starsky realized that the sound he had heard was Hutch's deep, exhausted breathing. And he'd never heard anything more beautiful in his life.

 

_Here, all the time._

 

He reached down and stroked back the hair that had fallen across Hutch's forehead, letting his fingers rest for a moment on the warm cheek, feeling overwhelmed by his love for this man. _Someday we're gonna get this right, babe. No more doubts._

 

The chill of the room penetrated at last, and he straightened up, shivering. Crossing to the closet, he fished down a blanket from the top shelf and returned to the couch to spread it over Hutch. “Sleep tight, babe,” he murmured and leaned over to place gentle kiss on the frown line between Hutch's brows.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

SUNDAY EARLY MORNING

 

Warmth enveloped him—close, living, seductive warmth. He snuggled closer to the source, drinking in the heat, breathing deeply of its clean, dry aroma. He was safe and protected, totally at peace—nothing to fear, no worries, no hassles, forever and ever.... His eyes flew open in sudden wakefulness and were met by Hutch's unblinking stare.

 

“I got cold on the couch,” Hutch murmured, a certain hesitation making the words almost a question.

 

“Thought about wakin' you up,” Starsky answered, letting his gaze travel slowly over the pale face, linger on the mouth and then return to the eyes. “Decided you needed your beauty sleep.”

 

“Did it work?”

 

Early morning sun provided only the promise of day, hinting at light, but content for the moment to leave most of the room in shadow. Hutch's blond hair was a silver blur on the pillow, his wide eyes dark and unreadable. And he was the incarnation of beauty, almost unreal. A lump formed in Starsky's throat as he made an attempt to find his next line in this game of words. Finally, he just nodded and let one hand slide up the smooth chest to rest on the pulse point at the base of Hutch's throat.

 

He heard the slight intake of breath, and moved forward to place his mouth over the parted lips, the muscles in his groin tightening at their immediate response. _Everything all right, back home, together, loving, loved, here, now, always.... ...hold me, love me, oh, sweet Jesus, yes.... Hutch!_

 

The demanding mouth was on his again, taking breath and life and sanity and feeding love and joy and reason for life. He tasted the sea-sharp essence of himself on Hutch's tongue and gloried in this proof of wholeness. _Love you, love you, always, beautiful love, mine, only mine...._

 

Golden body, smooth, soft, hard, like living marble, glowing, straining, demanding, filling, fitting, urgent, pulsing, pulsing....

 

The hot, bitter-sweet fountain took life within his throat. And he drank and drank again, quenching a thirst denied for too long.

 

He slid up along the damp length of Hutch's body, and gathered him in a loose embrace, murmuring all the endearments saved for this particular moment out of time. Lazy hands were in hair, caressing his face, on his mouth, following the contours of his back and hips as a blind man might touch to see. A deep lethargy flowed through him, silencing speech, stealing thoughts, floating him away on its slow current of contentment.

 

Sometime later he was aware that Hutch had fallen asleep again, lying safely in his encircling arms. Here, where he belonged. All things known in this place.

 

He opened his eyes part way to look at this person he loved to the exclusion of all others—the pale hair in hopeless disarray, the cheeks faintly flushed, the sensitive mouth relaxed and begging to be kissed.

 

Twelve years of love. Two days of love. His mind wrapped around the intricate concept of time and meaning and then backed away, as if to define it might destroy some infinitely delicate thing of beauty. He didn't have the words for this and knew that the wrong ones would be much worse than none at all.

 

Words and words, too many words, not enough words. They threw the words out as stumbling blocks and used them as brooms and never managed to cross the space between them except in those moments when words were forgotten. But they lived in a world of words and were going to have to find a new vocabulary.

 

He closed his eyes against the brightening day.

 

**********

**********

 

SUNDAY

 

“You hungry?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Figures.”

 

“What's that mean?”

 

“Nothin'.”

 

“If you're hungry, go find something to eat.”

 

“Got any suggestion.”

 

“I'm only human, Starsk.”

 

“So you say.”

 

“Stop that, or I'll shove you out of bed.”

 

“It's my bed.”

 

“I'm bigger than you.”

 

“Wanna compare?”

 

“Idiot!” He smiled into the blue eyes and pulled Starsky's teasing fingers away from their descending path. He raised the hand up between them and focused his gaze on it. Strength and delicacy. The hand of an artist or a musician. And remembered this hand holding cold steel and death, steady, unwavering. _I kill with beauty, as lightning upon the face of night._ A shiver of some primeval fear skittered along his back. Life or death, no compromise. “Starsk?” he whispered, still staring at the hand.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Does it ever bother you?”

 

“What?”

 

He looked into the puzzled eyes, searching for reassurance or help or maybe something that had no name. “The job, the killing and cruelty and dirt. Does it seem like it's all too easy? That we don't care about life any more?”

 

“What're you talking about? Of course we care.”

 

There was a tired quality to the voice, and he knew he had stepped into a realm where Starsky couldn't follow. This was his world, filled with the ghosts of what-ifs and and what-might-have-beens, ghosts that Starsky didn't see. Or perhaps they merely hid from his partner, afraid of that clear light of truth he wielded as a weapon.

 

“Hutch, what's wrong?”

 

And what did he tell him? That he'd never done anything in his life to merit this kind of love? That somehow, in someway he'd have to pay for this, and he was afraid of the price? He tried to smile, knowing it was a hopeless cause, and kissed the hand that had tightened on his. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” _Nothing you'd understand, love, or ever have to._

 

“It's something we have to do. That doesn't mean we have to like all of it or don't care.”

 

“I know. I'm just being stupid. Forget it.” _But hold on to me...hold on tight, 'cause sometimes I feel like the ghosts are closing in._ “Want to go out to lunch? I'll treat.”

 

“Feeling flush, huh? Okay.” Starsky stared at him speculatively for a second or two and then pulled his hand away and pushed himself into a sitting position against the headboard. “There's this great new Mexican place over on Pico. Best burritos I ever ate.”

 

Hutch smiled up at him, a genuine smile full of the love he felt. “Sounds fine.”

 

“Huh?”

 

The surprise on Starsky's face brought laughter singing from Hutch's throat. “I said, that's fine. You change your mind?”

 

“No...only.... What're waiting for? Let's go.” With sudden energy and determination, Starsky scrambled over him and started pawing through the closet for clean clothes.

 

Hutch watched him through shuttered eyes, trying to determine what there was about this man that elicited such love. But he knew he wouldn't find it. He'd tried before.

 

“You're gonna love this place. Wait 'til you taste the guacamole.”

 

“Starsk....”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I love you.”

 

The dark head lifted from its concentration on tying a sneaker, the blue eyes tender and bright. “I think that's pretty obvious, but we're still goin' to Abel's for lunch. Now, come on, I'm starved.”

 

“Abel's? What kind of name is that for a Mexican restaurant?”

 

“Dunno, but he serves great matzo ball tacos.”

 

Hutch stared at him in amazement for a couple of seconds before sitting up on the side of the bed. He wondered if he was going to regret his generous offer more than he'd originally thought, and then shrugged. _What the hell—it couldn't be any worse than the contents of Starsky's refrigerator, could it?_ He shuddered in premonition and stood up to get dressed.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

The restaurant had turned out to be really new—building and all—and the food not half-bad. Starsky'd been right about the guacamole, too. Hutch lazed back against the seat of the Torino and watched the world roll away. The sky was still overcast and gray, bright around the edges where the sun wouldn't be denied. The streets were Sunday-empty, bringing an illusion of peace. Today he wasn't a cop and refused to think about what was going on behind some of those closed door.

 

“Where we goin'?” Not that he really cared. He could've remained as he was forever—relaxed, unthinking, content just to be.

 

“It's a surprise. A place Huggy told me about last week.”

 

“Oh,” Hutch murmured noncommittally, trying to think where on earth Huggy could've suggested that Starsky'd think he would like. He decided there wasn't any such place—Huggy and Starsky's tastes were in much closer agreement with each other than with his own—and resigned himself to an afternoon of something bizarre, at best.

 

He looked at Starsky, seeing the child-like anticipation in his face, and decided he didn't dislike bizarre as much as he pretended. And then chuckled as he realized the strange juxtaposition of his thoughts.

 

Starsky flashed him a quick glance. “What're you laughin' at.?”

 

“Oh, nothing. Just wondering about the surprise.” And about you and and me and everything else that's just slightly crazy. _Feels good, love._

 

The block of buildings was old, on a side street off Vine, probably built in the twenties—discount clothing stores crowded with merchandise, an upholstery shop with a satin covered Queen Anne sofa as the only window decoration, a cleaners, and assorted other shops, all of which appeared to be closed. But several cars lined the street in both directions, looking abandoned. No pedestrians were in sight, and he thought about those scenes from old scifi movies of the fifties where some monster was about to rise up over the buildings and wreak grand destruction on the city.

 

Starsky found a parking space near the far end of the block and was out of the car before Hutch could put words to his questions. He climbed out more slowly, glancing up and down the street for any sign of a possible destination. There was nothing.

 

“Come on, come on,” Starsky called impatiently, already walking hurriedly back toward Vine. “We're late.”

 

“Since when are you the White Rabbit?” Hutch muttered and slammed the door. But he used the greater length of his legs to catch up to his partner in a matter of seconds. The air was cold and damp—more rain tonight—as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

 

“Here we go,” Starsky announced triumphantly and turned into a shallow recess between two dress shops.

 

Hutch frowned at the heavy door with its wooden plaque announcing The Blind Eye in rough-chiseled lettering.

 

“What the hell is this, Starsk?” he asked doubtfully. “Some kind of kinky bar?” And then could've bitten off his tongue. Bars catering to the kinky trade were definitely taboo subjects. But for some reason Starsky didn't seem to notice, and he breathed.

 

“Patience, patience.”

 

He followed Starsky up the narrow, dark stairs, the uncarpeted steps echoing loudly to the tread of his boots. From somewhere above came the muted strains of music—a guitar he noted, being played well, and a male singing voice.

 

“After you, mi amore.”

 

“Watch it!” Hutch snapped automatically, confused by the conflicting emotions around the playful endearment. One part of his mind sent his gaze darting around the empty corridor and doorway in search of anyone who might have overheard, while another part clutched the words close and turned them over as things to be cherished.

 

“Loosen up, babe,” Starsky said quietly half-shoving him into the candle lit room. “While I personally don't know how they can help it, the entire world is not watching us or listening to us.”

 

The hand remained on his shoulder, firm and uncompromising. Accepting this gesture for what it was, he felt the warm center of his love expand and flow along his veins in a sudden rush of happiness that misted his eyes for a second. He wanted to laugh and sing and take Starsky in his arms and shout the room to attention. Instead, he blinked his eyes clear and took in this place to which his partner had brought him.

 

A sixties' coffee house. He recognized the atmosphere immediately—the dark closeness, the bare wooden stage occupied by the singer with acoustic guitar. And all at once he was twenty again, caught up in the cause of brotherhood and freedom, dreaming the dreams that would change the world with their light of vision.

 

He looked at Starsky's shadowed face and raised one hand to cover briefly the fingers which still rested on his shoulder. He was rewarded with a smile of satisfaction.

 

They carefully threaded their way to one of the few empty tables and sat down. Although the tiny room was crowded almost to capacity, it was completely silent except for the music. He recognized the song— _Lochinvar_ —and let his mind wander with the images... _and we could go a ridin' off into the setting sun._

 

The song ended, and he joined in the general applause. Not really sixties, but perhaps more appropriate for the time and place. And he'd had no idea such places still existed. Or maybe this was a forerunner of something new. Because even though the physical setting was similar to the coffee houses which had thrived fifteen years ago, the feeling, now that he'd had a few minutes to absorb, was not the same. The customers were more relaxed, for one thing, and they smiled—something one had only done in recognition of the bitter ironies of life back in those other places. All in all, he liked this much better. The burden of the world grew heavy after a while.

 

Starsky leaned over and whispered, “Wonder how you get somethin' to to drink? I don't see a waitress, do you?”

 

“I imagine they only serve between sets. Don't want to disturb the singers.”

 

“Oh,” Starsky sat back and glanced around the room. “Do you like it?”

 

Hutch smiled and placed a hand on his arm. The dark eyes met his own, questioning. "Second best surprise I've ever had. Thank you."

 

A slow smile spread across Starsky's face as he understood the deeper meaning of the words. The music started again, and Hutch reluctantly returned his attention to the stage.

 

The singer was young and bearded, but didn't have the intensity of the artists he remembered from his college days. The voice was the slightest bit gruff with an undertone of country, softening the vowels and slurring the r's. Listening to _Tequila Sunrise,_ he wondered why the music wasn't the same as that of his youth. The styles were similar, tending to rather simple melodies with repetitive chords, easy to sing, easy to listen to. He supposed it was the message of the lyrics that created the differences. They had sung for the liberation of mankind; these songs were concerned with the liberation of the man. He wondered which was the more realistic goal or which the more important. And which was his?

 

Applause greeted the end of the song and the end of the set, it seemed, as the singer left the stage and a low buzz of conversation filled the room. Several young people appeared as if by magic and began taking orders, hurrying among the tables to deliver drinks, and finding seats for another group of late arrivals.

 

Starsky stretched beside him, balancing his chair back on two legs. “He's pretty good. Not much to dance to, though.”

 

“Starsk,” he started to protest or explain, but then saw the teasing glint in his partner's eyes and merely shook his head, pushing Starsky's chair back down on four legs. “You're in the way.”

 

“May my friend and I join you? There aren't any empty tables left.”

 

He glanced up to his right to see a smiling young woman. White teeth gleamed at him as her smile widened. She was pretty in a clean, fresh-faced sort of way, and he found himself returning the smile. “Be our guests.” He stood up and pulled out the chair closest to him. She turned and beckoned to another, smaller girl who hurried up, and Hutch realized just how young they really were—no more than twenty-one or two. Suddenly he felt rather old and burned out.

 

As they sat down, offering thanks and smiles and names, he turned to find Starsky watching him with expressionless eyes. Something knotted in his chest and he looked away.

 

“Have you been here before?” the taller of the two—Angela he remembered—asked. “I come in here almost every weekend and I don't think I've seen you, either of you.” She smiled in Starsky's direction and then returned her attention to him.

 

“First time,” Hutch provided.

 

“Oh, you're in for a real treat. The next guys are super. It's a shame they're not recording, but I guess I ought to be glad they're not, 'cause they wouldn't be around here for long if they were.”

 

“That good, huh?” he asked, trying to keep his attention on what was being said. What was wrong with Starsky? He wished these girls hadn't sat here, either, but what was he supposed to do? Told them to take the chairs and go away?

 

The enjoyment of a few minutes ago was gone as if it had never existed, and he wished he were home, reading or playing his guitar or just watching his plants grow.

 

“...such a waste, you know.”

 

Angela's words filtered through his preoccupation, and he wondered what the hell she was talking about. The singers, he assumed. “Wasted talent is always a shame, but at least a few of us get to appreciate them,” he said, trying to sound interested.

 

A strange expression crossed the girl's face, and if the light had been better he knew he'd have seen her blush. She looked at her companion and them lowered her gaze to the table. A strangled sound to his left drew his attention, and he saw with amazement that Starsky was desperately trying to contain his laughter.

 

Embarrassed now, he glanced at the girls who were also giggling, and then back at his partner. “Did I miss something?”

 

“How about the whole conversation?” Starsky choked out. “Angela here was just telling you that these two wonderful entertainers are openly gay and probably can't get a recording contract because they refuse to hide it.”

 

Starsky's eyes sparkled messages and he felt heat engulf his own face. Jesus! “Sorry,” he muttered and looked away from the laughing eyes. “Guess my mind was wandering or something.”

 

“That's okay,” Angela said sweetly. “Men like you aren't interested in that kind of thing. But they are good. And it's kind of cute watching them together. I hope it won't disgust you or anything. Most of the people who come here are pretty liberal types, you know.”

 

The condescension of here youth hit him like a taste of alum, drawing in the corners of his mind. Cute? Like some kind of goddamned side show or something. The patronization was almost worse than outright hatred. Gay Liberation was the new cause celebre, so all good liberals must bury their prejudices and pick up the banner—Some of my best friends are gay—and all the other crap that hid their fear of the unknown. Cute—another way to declaw the beast. Cute things weren't frightening. For the first time he got a glimmer of how blacks and other oppressed minorities must feel. And then he realized what he was doing—identifying himself as gay, automatically, without hesitation.

 

“Your beer's goin' flat.”

 

“What?” He looked at Starsky and then at the tall glass in front of him. When had he ordered that?

 _Get a grip on yourself, Hutchinson. You're losing contact with reality._ He noticed Angela's smile, the same smile women had given him all his life, the smile that said all he had to do was beckon and he could have anything he wanted. He wondered if she would think it was cute if he leaned over and kissed Starsky. He picked up the glass and took a long drink of the beer.

 

Enthusiastic applause erupted throughout the room, and he looked at the stage where two young men had appeared. He saw their fair good looks and strong bodies dressed in clothes he might have worn himself, and felt some undefined fear fade away.

 

The taller of the two seated himself on a wooden stool and ran through a few chords on his guitar. The other, microphone in hand, stood slightly behind and to the side of him, his free hand resting lightly on a broad shoulder. Both of them smiled at the audience, obviously delighted by their popularity. The guitar gradually began to send forth an intricate minor-key melody interwoven through the dominate chords, and Hutch realized the player was good, one of the best he'd ever heard.

 

So perfectly blended, that at first he couldn't separate it, the singer's voice picked up the melody thread and put words to the haunting music. And then he was lost in the song, soaring along with the painfully beautiful high notes, falling through the long dark tunnels of descending scales. _Lost along the path of time/I wandered, searching for you/Though I did not know your name...._

 

A long time later he became aware of conversation and movement. The stage was empty.

 

“...fantastic, aren't they?”

 

He nodded at Angela's half-heard praise, and turned to Starsky, standing up. “Let's go.”

 

The shadowed eyes looked at him carefully, and then Starsky was standing, too, shoving in his chair.

 

“It's been fun, girls,” he heard his partner say, and knew he should add some polite comment of his own, but started toward the exit without a word. Angela's protest that there was another good group they hadn't heard went unacknowledged.

 

A light mist was falling from darkened skies when they emerged onto the street. They walked to the car in silence, Hutch still deep in the mood of what he had just experienced. Something exquisite and rare had reached out from that stage and enveloped him in its magic. The songs had spoken of pain and loss, of endurance and survival, and always of love undenied, the touchstone of existence. He knew that the power of the music had come from the performers, because they were sharing themselves and their own love which had shone like the North Star on a clear winter's night—an uncompromising declaration that was almost hurtful in its beauty. No wonder they couldn't get a recording contract—the world ran scared and screaming from that kind of reality. _Like I do._

 

He leaned against the frame of the car while Starsky unlocked the door and started around to the driver's side. “Starsk,” he spoke across the rain-bright roof, “let's go to Sweden.”

 

“Right now?”

 

He ignored the laughter in Starsky's voice. “On our vacation.”

 

“You're gonna spend your vacation in the hospital if you keep standing out here in the rain.” Starsky got in the car and leaned across the seat to shove the passenger door open. “Get in, Snow Wizard. Why Sweden?” he asked as Hutch climbed in and slammed the door. “It's cold there.”

 

“I'll teach you to ski.”

 

“No thanks. Besides, I don't have that kind of money.”

 

“I've got some saved. Why don't you want to learn to ski?”

 

“It's not the skiing; it's the broken legs.” Starsky switched on the engine and pulled out into the light traffic.

 

“It's nice over there.”

 

“What's it got that Colorado doesn't?”

 

“A different outlook on life. No one cares what anyone else does or is.”

 

“Oh, I see,” Starsky murmured as he pulled to a stop at the light on Vine. “So we go to Sweden for two weeks and make like a honeymoon couple, huh?”

 

“Don't!” _Don't make it cheap and meaningless._

 

“Look, babe, I'm sorry,” Starsky said quietly, reaching over to touch his arm, “but that's not our style. We don't need to run off somewhere and hide.”

 

“We need something, goddamnit!” Frustration choked his voice, and he turned to stare out the side window with hard, bright eyes. “It's a stinkin', fucked up world, y'know?”

 

“Yeah, I guess so.”

 

The hand was withdrawn as the car moved forward again, traveling toward the beach.

 

After a few minutes he sighed and leaned back against the seat, turning so he could watch Starsky. “Dumb idea, huh?” he asked at last.

 

“No, just not very practical. I wish we could be as open as those guys, too, but I guess we have to find our own way. And we've got more than a lot of people. It's not that bad, Hutch.”

 

“I know.” He laid a hand on Starsky's thigh, wishing they were home so he could take him in his arms. “Guess I just want it to be perfect.”

 

His hand was grasped and pulled higher to rest against the fullness between his lover's leg.

 

“Time, babe, we're gettin' there.”

 

“Somehow doesn't seem fast enough,” he murmured roughly as he felt desire kindling.

 

“Wanna use the siren?”

 

~~~~~~~~

 

SUNDAY EVENING

 

The television voices rose and fell, delivering their pronouncements on the human condition—life, love, and the realities of existence according to 1956 and its safe version of the American Dream. He had stopped listening twenty minutes ago, and had stopped watching a half-hour before that. Propped in the corner of of the sofa, one knee drawn up as an armrest, Starsky made much better viewing, The flickering illumination from the television constantly reshaped the contours of his face, sculpting in shadows and light.

 

He had watched like this before—secretly, furtively—when such indulgence had meant bitter-sweet agony because Starsky must never see the hunger in his eyes. And he watched in secret now, not from fear, but because it pleased him to do so. At this moment he was quite certain he would never tire of the pleasure.

 

 _How do I love thee...._ Suddenly his vocabulary seemed frightfully inadequate to describe this man he loved. Beautiful did not define the shape or substance of the body which moved with grace and purpose, nor did it capture the heart-stopping quality of the smile that could light up the darkest room with its brilliance. In fact, beautiful was not even a word usually associated with the power of a man like Starsky, and yet he was beautiful. All parts created a whole that was somehow greater than the sum that such addition should equal. He knew, of course, that it was the inner core of the man—the spirit or soul or whatever one chose to call that part of a person that made him real and unique—which he was trying to describe. And such a task was impossible, for what he sought existed apart from the plane of physical reality, and yet imbued every cell with its presence. Like waves on an ocean—having no life of their own apart from the ocean, but separate entities in their own right, too. Paradox. For he loved the body of this man—its feel and smell and taste, texture and form, color and shape—and knew if it had been any other he would never have noticed. So what was the basis of his love?

 

“Made up your mind yet?”

 

Shadowed eyes met his stare, and he smiled, knowing he'd been found out, but unwilling to admit to anything. “About what?”

 

“Whatever you've been concentrating on so long. I feel like the prize exhibit at the zoo.”

 

“Nah, you don't do enough to earn your keep.”

 

Dark brows shot up in surprise, and then his eyes narrowed in speculation. “Oh, is that right?” he asked casually, sitting up.

 

“Starsk,” he warned, “watch the movie.”

 

A slow grin spread across Starsky face, and Hutch made an attempt to gain his feet, but was dumped back on the couch as hands grabbed the belt of his robe and yanked. Jeans covered legs straddled his hips, pinning him.

 

“Starsk!”

 

“Yeah?”

 

He stared up at the backlighted face leaning over him. “Will you let me up?”

 

“I'm earnin' my keep.”

 

Starsky settled himself more firmly while his deft fingers untied the belt knot and tugged the robe apart.

 

“You're insane. There is a limit, you know.”

 

“To what?

 

Warm hands smoothed the planes of his chest, ran along the indentations between his ribs. “My endurance.”

 

“Oh, too bad. Guess I'll have to think of something else.”

 

The touch lightened, skimming quickly from neck to navel and then insinuated itself beneath the edges of the robe, traveling upward along his sides. He squirmed uncomfortably and made a desperate grab for Starsky's arms when he realized what was happening, but it was too late. The fingers had reached their goal and attacked, sending him into helpless paroxysms of laughter while he struggled futilely to rid himself of his tormentor.

 

“Stop it! Oh, shit...don't...Starsk! Okay, okay...you earn your keep...I'm sorry...STOP!”

 

The hands fell still, but remained in readiness to resume hostilities. Starsky grinned at him.

 

“I'll get you for that.”

 

“Ah, ah, no threats” The fingers wiggled briefly.

 

“Okay, okay,” Hutch gasped out quickly, pulling at his arms.

 

Starsky laughed and collapsed on top of him, rubbing his soft curls across Hutch's face. “It's about time you learned who's boss.'

 

Hutch kissed the right corner of his mouth where the smile quirked at an upward cant and put his arms around the slim back. He outweighed Starsky by a good ten pounds of solid muscle, had a longer reach, and greater basic strength. He thought about using them, but then decided he was really quite content where he was.

 

He liked the feel of Starsky's weight on him, the warmth of the firm body, the clean smell of his hair—that improbably beautiful mop of curly dark hair. Somewhere he had a picture of Starsky taken during their academy days when the curls had been cut short and hidden by the uniform hat. He looked like someone else.

 

He reached up and ran his fingers through the curly mass, marveling again at its soft springiness and at the turn of fate which allowed him to do this.

 

Starsky propped himself on one elbow and stared down at him. “What's this thing you've got for my hair?”

 

“Do you mind?” Hutch asked, lowering his hands.

 

“Nah. If I was a cat I'd probably purr.”

 

He smiled at the image of a purring Starsky, thinking how much he did resemble a cat—sensuous, pleasure-seeking, playful, independent, loyal to those he loved...deadly. His smile faded as something intangible rose through the layers of his mind. He suddenly felt smothered, trapped.

 

“Let me up, huh?” He pushed at Starsky's chest with shaking hands, desperately needing air and space.

 

Starsky climbed off him, and stood watching as he sat up, breathing heavily.

 

“Somethin' wrong, Hutch?”

 

“No, nothing,” he murmured, wiping at the film of sweat that had broken out on his face. “You're just a damned big cat, that's all. He smiled again and reached out to pull Starsky down. “You're missing your movie.”

 

“Seen it before.”

 

Hutch put his feet up on the coffee table, drawing Starsky against him. He wanted him here, close. There weren't any doubts...were there?

 

Several minutes passed as the program wound up to its fairy tale ending of smiling faces and pledges of love everlasting. Were such things really possible in this world? ...arms holding him close, laughter singing through his veins like sparkling wine, never cold, never abandoned.... Yes, perhaps they were, but not without payment in kind.

 

The ring of the telephone shrilled through the room, startling both of them. Hutch let go of Starsky and leaned forward to grab up the receiver, hoping it wasn't the station calling them in.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Ken?”

 

Shit! Brett Adams. “Yes.” He cast a quick glance at Starsky, who had remained leaning against the back of the couch. The dark eyes were on him. He looked away, acutely uncomfortable.

 

“It's Brett, Ken.”

 

“I know.” Starsky was going to be furious.

 

“How're you doing?”

 

“Fine.” Maybe he could pretend it was someone else.

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.” What the hell did he want?

 

“Did Dave tell you I went to see him?”

 

“Yes.” Starsky's hands ran down his back. What could he tell him?

 

“I hope you're not angry at my interference. I only wanted to help.”

 

“I know.” Maybe he should just hang up.

 

“And everything worked out all right?”

 

“Yes.” Starsky's arms slid around him, hands coming to rest on his stomach, head leaning against his shoulder.

 

“I'm happy for you.”

 

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

 

“I can tell I called at a bad time. I'm sorry.”

 

Guilt washed over him. He owed this man a debt of gratitude on several counts, and here he was acting like a teenager caught between two dates. _Grow up, Hutchinson._ Starsky would just have to understand. “It's okay, Brett. Thanks for...well, just thanks. I owe you.”

 

“No, you don't owe me a thing, as I'm sure Dave will tell you. Listen to him, Ken. Goodbye.”

 

The receiver went dead, and he replaced it slowly, realizing that Starsky was no longer touching him. “Okay,” he sighed, turning to meet the shadow-filled eyes, “get it over with.”

 

“What?”

 

“The questions.”

 

“I don't have any questions. That was Brett Adams, right?”

 

“Right,” he agreed softly. Something strange was happening here. Where was Starsky's anger? And why was he dismayed instead of relieved by its absence?

 

“He wanted to know how you were, and if I'd come through like a good boy, right?”

 

The words were delivered in a smiling tone that set off warning flares in Hutch's mind. He'd been wrong. The anger was here—dark, deep.

 

“Well, not exactly in—“

 

“Close enough,” Starsky broke in. “And you told him you were fine and I was fine and he'd done a fine night's work of matchmaking.”

 

“He did us a favor.”

 

“Oh, yeah, that's right.” Starsky rose to his feet and walked over to the forgotten television. He hit the off button, plunging the room into total darkness. “Wonderful man, Brett Adams. Friend in need, or bed, depending on the problem, of course.”

 

“Stop it!” Hutch fumbled for the lamp switch and turn it on. The subdued yellow light reached out across the room, found the dark slits of Starsky's eyes and bounced back shards of blue steel.

 

He had seen Starsky like this many times—smoldering, dangerous, ready to explode in a killing rage—but only once before had he been the object of that anger. And now he discovered that familiarity made it no less frightening. That the basis of that anger was false made no difference either. Suddenly he wished he knew what Adams had told him. “He was just being nice. What's the matter with you?” Hutch stood up, retying the belt of his robe.

 

Starsky remained where he was, arms folded implacably across his chest, eyes glittering, mouth a mere slash in the anger-pale face. Again Hutch felt trapped, unable to move or breathe.

 

“Look, I'm not gonna spend the rest of my life feeling guilty about Brett.”

 

“That, at least, is perfectly clear. When you gonna invite him over for a blow-by-blow description?”

 

The crudity ripped through him, feeding the fire of his own anger. “Hold it! Hold it just one damned minute. What's that cute little remark supposed to mean?”

 

Starsky's hands fell to his sides as he advanced across the room. He stopped, facing Hutch, the coffee table a flimsy barrier between them. “It means that you're a goddamned fool if you think Adams only called to say, 'Hello, how you doing?' That man wants you, Hutch, and he's had lots of practice in getting what he wants.”

 

 _Do you want me to make love to you? I'd like to, you know._ “You're crazy. He's not like that.”

 

“Fuck that crap. If he'd found out I wasn't here, where do you think your nice guy Mr. Adams would be right now? Hell, he probably called from the pay phone on the corner.”

 

The words fell harsh and loud, like mortar shells across a battlefield.

 

“Why should he have waited two days?” Hutch countered. “He could have stayed the other night if that's what he wanted. I asked him to, remember?”

 

Direct hit. The white face grew pinched and old before his eyes. Death's bright robes swept into the room, seeking casualties.

 

Starsky's voice fell to an expressionless monotone. “Oh, I remember, all right. You both made sure I got the message, loud and clear. Adams had first chance at the body beautiful and turned it down out of the goodness of his heart. And I'm supposed to be grateful, right?”

 

He turned away from Hutch, not going anywhere, just standing with his head bowed, as if he had no strength left to move.

 

“No,” Hutch whispered, all the anger suddenly gone. “I'm the one who's grateful, because I was a fool and somehow I haven't had to pay for it. I didn't mean that, you know—about him staying. I didn't really ask him to...except I let him bring me home, so I guess it's the same thing. But, Starsk, you don't believe I'd have gone through with it, do you?” He walked around the coffee table to stand behind the silent man, wanting to reach out and heal the wounds he'd inflicted, but unsure that his touch would be accepted. And sorry wouldn't be enough—sorry didn't call back time or deeds, sorry didn't unsay the words or erase the memories. _All the king's horses...._ “I'd undo all of it if I could—start over and make it right. I didn't ever mean to hurt you, but I always seem to do the wrong thing. I should've come to you myself—I know that—and I don't have any excuse except I was so scared I'd lose you. Am I going to anyway?”

 

He placed his hands on the rigid shoulders, almost removing them when the tension hit him—like electricity through live wire. Drawing in a deep breath of courage, he let his hands slide down the arms and turn the coiled-spring body to face him.

 

Starsky's eyes, dark and wide with some undefined emotion, stared into his. The cold knot of fear tightened in Hutch's chest. “Tell me what to do, what to say”

 

Long moments passed while he watched shadows shift across the blue eyes—everything or nothing, life or death. Finally, the dark head moved in a slight shake of negation.

 

“It doesn't matter.” The voice was calm, resigned. “You attract people—all kinds of people—men, women, people looking for something they see in you. I oughta know better than any of them, I guess. But you can't help it. Just like I can't help being jealous. Nothing either one of us says or does is gonna change that.” He shrugged and smiled bitterly, reaching up a hand to caress Hutch's face. “ Wonder if he knows?”

 

The relief that washed though him at Starsky's touch suddenly disappeared. “Knows what?” he asked hesitantly.

 

“How lucky he is.”

 

He didn't need to ask who or why—the voice and eyes told him, warned him. _…and you'd destroy me...._

 

_Dear God! Always the same.... Everyone loves you...you have a great responsibility, Kenneth...I wanted to kill him...and you'd destroy me...you said you liked me...I'm sorry...why can't you love me...and you won't come after me...I wanted to kill him...it's my fault...I wanted to kill him...and you'd destroy me...kill him...kill...._

 

The eyes held him—pinned, captured, helpless. Nowhere to turn where they were not. “He knows.” The words were barely audible, dredged up from some place in his mind that remembered how speech was formed. “Am I going to destroy you, too? Am I, Starsk?”

 

Starsky's eyes didn't waver. “The only way you're gonna destroy me is if you stop loving me, and that's your choice.”

 

“I'm scared, Starsk. I love you, but something always happens to the people I love. It's me. I do things to hurt them or drive them away or—“

 

“I've been around a long time, and I'm not plannin' on goin' anywhere.”

 

“Maybe you should,” he whispered, releasing his hold on Starsky's arms and turning away. _Before it's too late._

 

“Do you want me to leave?”

 

Cold desperation gripped his soul. _...forgive me...._ “No.” _…never, never leave me...never let go...._

 

Arms encircled him, drawing him close. Warm lips brushed his neck.

 

“We're in this together, babe. I knew what I was doing, and there aren't any regrets. Understand?”

 

He nodded, agreeing to this truth that must be truth if all else were not to be false. Payment in kind.

 

“Hutch?” Starsky's arms tightened fractionally.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I want you to do something for me.”

 

There was a curious note in the low voice, a hesitancy that hadn't been there seconds earlier.

 

“What?” He attempted to turn around, but he was held in place.

 

“No. Listen first.”

 

“All right.” Why wouldn't Starsky look at him?

 

“I want you to make love to me.”

 

“Didn't you think I would?” He was puzzled and suddenly apprehensive.

 

“No, not like what you're thinking. I want you to fuck me...like I did you.”

 

Heat and cold, hysteria and sickness, fear and desire—all avalanched upon his mind and body, sending him into momentary free fall. He wanted to scream, laugh, cry.... _No, no, no... I can't, won't.... Why? Why?_ “Why?” He shook like autumn struck aspen. “Why?” he whispered again.

 

“Because you're still afraid everything's gonna disappear. Because I want all of you. Because you love me. Because it feels good.”

 

Ghost remembrances of pain and tears.... ”You don't know what you're asking me to do.”

 

Starsky let go of him then, moving around to face him. “I know exactly what I'm asking, Hutch.”

 

 _...tears and ecstasy...._ He stared into the dark eyes, finding his own image reflected there. _Wasn't it yesterday? Wasn't it me who said it?_ He ran trembling fingers down Starsky's face. “Yes, maybe you do.”

 

He would have preferred darkness for this ritual of night, but recognizing his desire as the fear it was, he left the living room lamp burning. Not that its light shed much illumination here in the bedroom. Shadows lurked everywhere—observing, waiting. _All secrets will be mine._

 

Starsky sat in the middle of the bed. He, too, waited, watched—his nude body only a slightly less dense shadow.

 

The moment with all its attendant realities crushed down on Hutch as he pulled open the top drawer of the dresser and fumbled for the tube of lubricant. No way to disguise or hide or pretend. He knew what must be done and he cringed. His hand closed about the cold plastic, but for a moment he could not bring himself to pick it up. _To prevent possible physical injury, the anal sphincter and the first few inches of the rectum must be well lubricated and as relaxed as possible. Relaxation of these muscles is most easily accomplished by the insertion of...._ He tore his thoughts away from their mechanical path and withdrew the tube, slamming the drawer with quiet violence.

 

Shrugging out of his robe, he tossed it across the foot of the bed and sat down facing Starsky. He'd never felt less like making love in his entire life. What if he couldn't? He was almost comforted by the possibility of failure—a way out not considered until now.

 

Starsky took the tube from his hand, turning it so he could read the label. He stared at it for a few moments and then dropped it on the bed, meeting Hutch's eyes again.

 

“I can't do it—not like this. I feel like a five-buck street hustler.”

 

“Twenty-five, at least.”

 

“What?”

 

“Maybe even fifty.” White teeth flashed at him, smiling, laughing. “Come here, you big dope.”

 

Arms pulled him down, closed about him, held him.

 

“You love me, right?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Say it.”

 

“I love you,” he whispered.

 

“I can't hear you.”

 

“I love you,” he said more loudly, hearing the confidence and feeding on it. The heat of Starsky's body flowed into him, bringing nerve endings alive.

 

“You like to touch me.”

 

“I like to touch you,” he responded, falling into the pattern of this game.

 

“Show me.”

 

He ran light fingers across the back and trailed them slowly down to the curve of his buttocks and stopped. Starsky arched back against the pressure, creating space between them. He moved his hand lower and pulled the warm body against his own again. A shock wave of desire ripped through him as the hard length of Starsky's cock pressed into his abdomen. Heat flashed outward from his groin, and he tightened his hold.

 

Starsky's mouth was on his, demanding, merciless, tasting of beer and raisins and love. He groaned somewhere deep in his throat, wanting...needing...soaring....

 

Suddenly, Starsky rolled away from him. But as he reached to draw him back, something was pushed into his hand. The feel of plastic, cold and alien, jolted him out of orbit and slammed him to earth with brutal force. He gasped and sat up, dropping the tube.

 

“Now, Hutch. Fuck me now.”

 

He heard the demand and recognized it as the echo of his own desire. He wanted this man, wanted to feel this body beneath him, captive, wanted to hear the cries of pain and pleasure, take him, own him.

 

“Turn over,” he commanded.

 

“No, I want to see you.”

 

“Turn over, goddamnit!”

 

Starsky turned over. The pale globes of his buttocks shone in the dim light, and Hutch leaned down to kiss each cheek lightly. He ran his hands over the smooth flesh, kneading, drinking in the sheer physical gratification of touching. Small moans of pleasure, murmured endearments.

 

He uncapped the lubricant and squeezed a generous amount into his hand. Starsky moved impatiently as he applied the cream to the outside rim of the tight orifice. Very carefully, he slipped one finger into the opening, pushing gently, deliberately.

 

“Oh, God!” he heard Starsky gasp as he pressed deeper. The strong sphincter muscles gripped his finger—fluttering, relaxing, tightening again.

 

“Relax, babe,” he directed softly, withdrawing the finger and then slowly inserting it again. A kind of hazy euphoria settled over him as he continued this process, a feeling of stasis—as though time, too, were his to command, or perhaps that time had simply stopped.

 

A convulsive shudder from Starsky brought him back. The body arched against his probing fingers, forcing them deeper. “Now, Hutch! Goddamnit, do it now.”

 

He withdrew his hand, found the tube and spread more lubricant down the length of his own impossibly hard cock. The swollen flesh caught and held the light, gleaming huge and menacing in the semi-darkness, as he straddled Starsky's thighs. He was going to hurt this man, and—God help him!—the knowledge excited him. He gripped the writhing hips with both hands and pulled the cheeks apart, placing the head of his cock against the opening and pushing. With sudden strength and a grunt of effort. Starsky raised himself onto hands and knees, shoving back.

 

Hutch felt himself slipping down the hot, dark tunnel, sliding smoothly, effortlessly, losing control—of himself, of Starsky.

 

“No!” He shoved Starsky down, holding him immobile. “No,” he said again, withdrawing until only the head remained inside.

 

“Please, Hutch, for God's sake...please....”

 

The imploring voice brought some demon clawing to the surface. “You want it? Huh? Like this?” He thrust himself in roughly. “Do you?”

 

“Yes, yes.... Goddamn you, yes.”

 

Tears were in the voice now—tears of pain? _I love you...I'm sorry...I'm sorry...._ He eased himself back and then pushed forward, sliding deeper. Starsky's hips lifted, meeting him, urging, encouraging.

 

Muffled sounds reached his ears, laughter broken sobs, “Harder. Harder, damnit. I'm not breakable. Do it!”

 

The body beneath him writhed, opened, accepted him, clamped hard muscles around him, and drew him down into the swirling maelstrom of all beginning. Power gathered in him, and he was God—drawing chaos from its scattered shores and shaping worlds from its formless substance, day from night, molding man in his own image. Somewhere voices were chanting out a litany of genesis, but their voices rang soundless in this first dawn. Fire rained from the heavens of his creation and he fell, twisting, helpless, through its bright glow.

 

He lay as dead, feeling only the last few contractions deep within the slim body and the ragged attempts at breathing from his own lungs. Gradually, he realized he was crying, the tears mingling with the slick film of sweat on Starsky's back. Starsky!

 

“Starsk?” He raised his head, and reached up to touch the tumbled curls. Fear stopped the tears in his throat. “Starsk?” He slipped off of him and turned the body with frantic hands. “Oh, jesusgod. Starsk! Answer me.”

 

“Whadya want me to say?” Sleepy blue eyes blinked at him, catching reflection of the dim light.

 

“Are you all right?” Never a thought....

 

“You're weird.” The eyes closed as Starsky snuggled closer and yawned.

 

Relief swept through him, draining away every ounce of strength. He collapsed against the pillows, not sure whether he wanted to hug Starsky or hit him. He lay for a long time, exhausted, trying not to think—about what he had done and mostly about what he had felt. But the thoughts wouldn't be denied.

 

The remembered ecstasy of power he had experienced at Starsky's helplessness rose again. Could that be called love by anyone's definition? No where in those last few minutes could he recall any concern for the man whose body he had used. Shame sent heat rushing through to his face as he stared down at the dark head nestled so trustingly against his chest.

 

“I'm sorry, love.”

 

“What for?” The voice was far from sleepy.

 

“Using you like that.”

 

“I'm the one who asked, remember?” Starsky shifted around so he could kiss the underside of Hutch's chin. “Besides which, who's complaining?”

 

“I didn't care. Don't you understand? I didn't even think about you.”

 

“Then who were you talking to? I don't know any other Starskys around here, do you?”

 

Surprise gave way to a remembered voice—his own—calling down the fire. He tried to find comfort in that small measure of concern, but it was a lie and he knew it.

 

“Hutch?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

A hand drifted up to rest on his cheek.

 

“I love you.”

 

“I know,”

 

“Good, 'cause it was like that for me, too, and if you know I love you, then don't you think I still know you love me?”

 

He stared down at the serious face, wishing he could find that kind of certainty. He touched the corner of Starsky's mouth. “Smile for me.” _Smile for me and drive this demon from my soul—the monster who walks in dark shrouds of doubt and says you, too, like all the rest, will one day leave, taking with you joy and light._ “Smile for me.”

 

Soft laughter filled the room. “You are weird.”

 

 _I love you, David Starsky, and you scare the hell out of me._ “Yeah, well, you don't do bad in that department yourself.” Something to lighten the mood. “Come on, shower time.”

 

“Ohhhh. God! I've never been so clean in my life.”

 

“Just be sure you stay that way.” He pushed Starsky over to the side of the bed. “You go first.”

 

“Why? It's your idea.”

 

“That's right. Move.”

 

“Okay, okay, but I'm not taking another one in the morning.”

 

“We'll see.” He shoved again, and Starsky stumbled to his feet.

 

“Nag.”

 

“Just doin' what I do best.”

 

“Not quite.” Starsky winked at him and sauntered off toward the bathroom, whistling.

 

He lay still for another few moments, trying to gather his scattered emotions and place them in some semblance of order. He'd spent the last year or so of his life wanting what he'd come to believe was impossible. Every problem in his life had been attributed to that hopeless desire. How many times had he thought, if only? And now? Everything was his, and still tomorrow waited—unknown and just as far beyond his control as ever.

 

He stood up and turned on the bedside lamp. The uncapped lubricant lay on the carpet at his feet. He bent over and picked it up, wondering what had happened to the lid and why it no longer bothered him to think of such things. Placing the tube on the nightstand, he stripped the soiled sheet from the bed and threw it in a corner.

 

“Hey, blondie!” Starsky's voice reached him from the bathroom.

 

“Yeah?” He grabbed a clean sheet from the closet and tossed it on the mattress.

 

“A guy could use a little company.”

 

“In a minute.” Quickly, he remade the bed and then started for the bathroom. The mirror caught his reflection in passing, and he stopped to stare at himself. Same body, same face....

 

“Hutch!”

 

“Stop yelling.” He moved away from the mirror and walked into the steam-clouded bathroom. “What're you trying to do, wake the whole building?”

 

Starsky poked his dripping head out from behind the shower curtain and grinned. “Whatsa matter? You afraid they'll call the cops?”

 

“Now, that would make an interesting report for Captain Dobey. Move over.”

 

_Signs that burn like shooting stars..._

_Some are born that would defy them..._

_Some are born who never need them..._

_And speak in voices half-remembered..._

_And half-remembered, play their part..._

_Of paupers and of men with means..._

_It all depends on how it reads._

Signs – Neil Diamond

**********

**********

 

MONDAY NIGHT

 

“Did I ever tell you you're beautiful?” The words were spoken softly into the golden hair while long fingers traded lazy circles on his chest.

 

“Not in the last two minutes.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Umm... It's the lightning—gone to your brain. You'll get over it.”

 

He glowed with warmth and sensuous contentment, still suspended in the spell of their recent love making. It had been different this time, slightly rough, walking the tightrope of pleasure/pain with uncertain balance. There had been little talk, each ready before the Torino had pulled to a stop at Venice Place. They had run upstairs, laughing, stripped off their clothes and fallen together on the bed, impatient hands and mouths claiming one another in mutual need. The storm outside had gathered force and descended upon the world in a spectacular display of light and sound. He had been peripherally aware of nature's demonstration, but at the time the thunder and lightning had seemed mere outward manifestations of his own pounding heart and heat-flashed body.

 

Now, as he lay adrift in the after-glow, aware of each point of contact with the body pressed against him, he wondered why it was so natural to fall into this kind of poetic comparison where making love with Hutch was concerned. He'd never thought of himself as the poetic type, and smiled as he tried to picture Hutch's face if he told him what had been running through his mind. Actually, Hutch probably wouldn't think it was strange at all—that's the way his partner's mind worked. Three dimensional mazes, or maybe it was four dimensional. Trying to follow Hutch's thought processes was a full-time job, frequently leading him to places he'd just as soon not see and often didn't understand once he was there. And them again, he sometimes found what he thought was the right path, only to discover he'd taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in a false center, surrounded by a million answers, none of them correct. Or perhaps that really was the truth, and the other places that looked like reality were only dead-ends. He was getting as bad as Hutch—it was catching.

 

“What're you thinking about?”

 

“How much I don't know about you.”

 

“You know I love you.” The voice was wistful and perhaps a little frightened.

 

“Sure,” Starsky agreed quickly, heading off some flight of imagined doubt on Hutch's part. “I didn't mean that.”

 

“What?”

 

“Don't know exactly. Guess I'm still a little confused about things.”

 

“Like what?” Hutch persisted, his fascination for the unknown latching onto the question in Starsky's voice.

 

 _Oh, god, now you've done it. Why didn't you just say you were listening to the rain?_ “Nothin' much.”

 

“I want to know.”

 

“Yeah, you always do. Okay. Yesterday, when those girls came up, how come you tuned out like that?”

 

“I thought you were mad.”

 

“Should I have been?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then why'd you think I was?”

 

The hands on his chest curled into loose fists, and he reached up to unclinch them, covering the straightened fingers with his own.

 

“I...I don't know. You just seemed withdrawn, or.... Oh, hell, Starsk, I don't know. If you weren't, then you weren't.”

 

“Did you think I was jealous?”

 

The hands under his tightened momentarily, communicating an answer independent of speech.

 

“Maybe,” came the almost inaudible reply.

 

“I was, but not because of them particularly. I just didn't want to share you, same as always, only you never noticed before.”

 

He felt the stillness of shock in the body that he rested against. “Surprised?”

 

Hutch slipped from beneath him, shifting his position so that he could see his face, as if he might perceive something important through the near-darkness.

 

“What are you saying?”

 

The shadow-hollowed eyes searched his own in narrowed concentration.

 

“A lot of things, I guess.” But suddenly he wasn't sure how to say what any of these things were. Jealousy, yes, but not the kind most people meant when they used that word. He didn't think Hutch was going to run off with some woman, not now anyway. And before, he hadn't allowed himself to think of his feelings in those terms. If he had, they'd have probably ended up where they were a long time before this. No, it was more what he'd said to Hutch—he didn't want to share him, with anyone. Only now, of course, he was really jealous, too, but not of women. Not because he thought Hutch would seek out another man, but because it had been brought home to him that other men would seek out Hutch. But maybe he'd always known that, too. The fact that they had no close male friends other than Huggy was probably important. _It is catching!_ He realized where his thoughts had wandered and Hutch was still waiting for an explanation.

 

He reached up and ran one finger along the firm cheek, outlining the slightly swollen mouth. The occasional flicker of lightning from the storm which continued to prowl restlessly overhead picked outmthe silver of Hutch's hair.

 

“I can always see you, even on the darkest night. Did you know that? It's your hair. I remember the first day we met. You were standing in the sunlight.”

 

“Starsk?”

 

“I know, but that's kind of the answer, too. I went back to _Gino's_ Saturday night.” He wondered where the words had come from. He hadn't meant to say that, not yet.

 

“What?”

 

Hutch drew back from him and sat up, dragging the sheet and blankets with him. The cooler air of the room flowed across Starsky, making him shiver. “You heard me. Lie down; I'm cold.” He tugged at Hutch's arm, and after a bit of resistance Hutch stretched out beside him again. Starsky snuggled in close, pulling the welcome covers around his shoulders. “What happened to the heat in here? It's like an ice box.”

 

Hutch's arm slid around him, pulling him closer, warming him. He felt some of the tenseness leave the long body and relaxed. For a minute he'd wondered whether they were going to talk or fight. It was hard to tell with Hutch sometimes. Right now he knew his partner was confused. But that was okay, so was he.

 

“Why'd you go there, Starsk?” Hutch asked after several minutes.

 

“To see...and, I guess.... I don't know, really.” Familiar line. “I told you, I don't like to share you.”

 

“You'll never have to share me with those people.”

 

The words were a pledge, and he felt a slight shudder ripple through Hutch. Hutch'd hated that place or the people. Why? Because they were gay? Or because he was and didn't want to be? And here were the words again, creating their own obstacle course of definitions and feelings that could only be negotiated by more words. Gay. He examined the word carefully, trying to find a purchase point, a way to grab hold and fit it into their lives as important or shove it aside as irrelevant, and decided it was both.

 

“We're part of them.”

 

“No!”

 

He was crushed by the denial as Hutch's arms tightened painfully.

 

“Yes, like them and John Blain and all the others, because the world says we are. But—“

 

“That's crazy,” Hutch interrupted, loosening his grip. “You never even thought about this. It was me, and I don't want anyone but you.”

 

“I'm not so sure—“

 

A sharp gasp told him that Hutch had jumped to the wrong conclusion, and he grabbed for the retreating body. “Stop it! I didn't mean I wasn't sure of you. Will you get it through that thick skull of yours that I know you love me? I meant about me not thinking about it. Do you really think I'd be here right now if I was as straight as you're saying I was? People don't change that much, no matter how much they care about someone. You know that.”

 

“I guess so,” Hutch whispered, “but you know you never realized any of that until afterwards and never would have if nothing had happened. Don't make yourself into something you weren't to make me feel better.”

 

“You dope!” He pulled Hutch to him again and kissed him briefly. “If you'd let me finish two sentences in a row maybe you'd understand what I'm saying. Okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

He kissed him again, started to draw away, and was stopped. Hands tangled in his hair and the questing tongue invaded his mouth, driving away the words. His body melted against Hutch's, blending, absorbing.

 

“No fair,” he said at last, panting for air. “That's my trick.”

 

“I know, but I learn fast.”

 

“So I've noticed.”

 

Silence fell between them for a while, finally broken by Hutch's quiet voice. “Are we really like them?”

 

Starsky rolled over onto his back, staring upward. The room was dark, the shadows swallowed by the night. Sometimes things were clearer when a person couldn't see at all. He could hear cars moving on the street outside, and a distant rumble of thunder announced that the storm had taken its show to a new audience. Hutch's arm, heavy and warm, lay across his stomach, maintaining contact.

 

“Yeah, in some ways we are. At least that's what most people would say. But that doesn't matter, 'cause were not like them in other ways, more important ways.”

 

“Some of the scientists say everyone is bisexual. Maybe that's what we are.”

 

Hutch and his damned books. “What do they mean by that?” The word smacked of cop-out to him. “Do they mean wanting to make it with both sexes, or able to make it? I guess most everyone's able to; it's the wanting part I'm not so sure about. Did you ever want another guy?”

 

“No.”

 

“See? That's the difference.” Or at least as close as he was able to define it.

 

“What about you?”

 

He heard the effort the question cost Hutch, and wondered briefly if he should tell him about Chip Andretti and that last winter of his New York life. Someday, maybe. “No.” And it wasn't a lie. “I never really loved anyone before I met you. Afterwards, I never saw anyone else.”

 

“You loved Terry?”

 

“Yeah, I suppose I did, but you were still there. I didn't have to choose. And she's dead.” Just like Vanessa. _Only you did choose, or I did it for you._ “I hated Vanessa, you know.”

 

Hutch was silent for a long time, his hand moving across the flatness of Starsky's abdomen in idle caresses. “I know,” he finally answered, the hand falling still.

 

“You might have made it work, if I hadn't been here.”

 

“I probably wouldn't have married her in the first place if you hadn't been here.”

 

“Huh?” Another path in the maze opened up.

 

“She made me forget you.”

 

And for the first time Starsky knew a sense of pity for Vanessa. It didn't mitigate his dislike, but he thought maybe it made him understand her better. In the only face-to-face confrontation he'd ever had with her, she'd accused him of destroying her marriage. And he'd acknowledged the truth in that statement a long time ago, maybe even then. But he'd known she was bad for Hutch, and that had justified everything. He'd never thought of her as the victim—she'd deserved her fate. Even now, he didn't regret what he'd done, only it somehow seemed like crushing a mosquito with a brick—overkill.

 

“After I knew how I felt about you, I spent a lot of time feeling guilty about Van. She turned out to be a greedy bitch, but maybe that was partly my fault, too.”

 

And what did he say to that? He placed a hand over Hutch's, rubbing his thumb along the soft underside of the wrist. “We've both been sort of unfair to the women in your life, the ones who mattered, anyway. You were right when you said I never like Gillian.”

 

“Because you knew what she was.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

He hadn't told Hutch about trying to buy her off. The time had never seemed right. It didn't now, so perhaps it never would, and he shoved the memory back where it belonged. Some truths were always shrouded in lies.

 

He sensed the time slipping away. A horn sounded from the street once, and later a solitary tinkle of laughter floated up from someone going into or leaving the restaurant below. Once more he knew that peculiar isolation. The darkness surrounded them, and they were alone, floating in space, unconnected to the rest of the world. But tomorrow and the day after that and all the days yet to be would find then out there living or dying by the world's rules and demands. He wondered how they were going to keep their starship in orbit.

 

“What are we going to do, Starsk?”

 

He felt his mind tilt at a crazy angle, thinking for a second that he'd lost the ability to separate thought from the spoken word. Deliberately righting himself, he shifted to take Hutch in his arms. _Too soon to tell, babe._ “Fix dinner, watch a little T.V., and make love, but not necessarily in that order. We could even take another shower.”

 

“That isn't what I meant,” Hutch protested in a serious voice.

 

“Yeah, but I don't have the answer, so I figured we'd just wing it for a while. Besides, I'm tired of talking. Let's neck.”

 

“Sex isn't the solution to everything, Starsk. We need— Ummm....”

 

He cut off the rest of the words with his mouth, taking satisfaction in the tightening of Hutch's arms around him. After a minute or so he let his mouth drift across the warm face and nibble on an earlobe. “Who says?” he mumbled, running a hand along Hutch's flank.

 

“We're not kids anymore.”

 

“Coulda fooled me.” His hand slid down to capture the swelling cock. “It's all that vitamin E you take.”

 

“What's your excuse?” Hutch asked, a small moan of pleasure escaping as Starsky bent his head to bite gently on a flat nipple.

 

“Hot blooded. Desert people, you know.”

 

“Oh, Jesus!”

 

Long fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders as he licked slowly down the smooth belly and took the soft-hardness into his mouth. _That's right, babe. Forget it all. We're gonna handle that, too, but not tonight._ And then he forgot what Hutch wasn't supposed to remember.

 

~~~~~~~~~

TUESDAY

 

“What're we gonna do about Thursday night?” He glanced quickly at Hutch and then fixed his eyes on the heavy evening traffic again. Everyone in a rush to get home. Home. Home to Hutch's. Familiar thought. He wondered how long he'd made the connection without realizing it?

 

“What's Thursday?”

 

“The girls, the concert...you know.”

 

“Oh.... Nothing, I guess.”

 

“Nothing?” He braked abruptly for a car turning right. Why didn't people use their goddamn signals? And why the hell wasn't there a freeway closer to Venice?

 

“Nothing. We keep the date.”

 

He risked another brief glance at Hutch, but the blond head was turned away, staring out at the lighted shop fronts. Nothing? Just as though none of it had happened? Same as before? He'd been to bed with Linda a few times—was he supposed to do that now? And what about Hutch and Marie?

 

“Why?”

 

“Because we have to.” Hutch's voice was low and weary.

 

Starsky pulled the Torino to the curb behind the green car and switched off the engine. They sat still and silent.

 

They'd awakened early, making love leisurely in the dim light of dawn—soft beautiful love. No hurry, no doubts. They'd retrieved Hutch's car from West Los Angeles, even laughing at how he kept getting separated from the Plymouth and had picked up some of Starsky's clothes—making plans for later. The rest of the day had been spent in the office, catching up on some of the always present paper work, And everything had seemed almost like old times...except.... Except for the glow in the blue eyes that met his across the desk...except for the flush of self-consciousness when that look went on too long...except for the heat that stole through his own veins whenever he thought of his beautiful partner naked...except....

 

“Milk's gonna spoil.”

 

“What?”

 

“The groceries. Let's get this stuff upstairs.”

 

~~~~~~~~

 

Starsky sat back on the sofa, watching Hutch find things to do—unnecessary things, things to avoid other things. “We gonna talk about this or not?” he finally asked.

 

The solemn face turned to him, the eyes wide and pale. “There's nothing to talk about. We have to do it.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You know why.”

 

And, of course, he did. The rules were all laid out—the unwritten code of the world in which they lived and worked. A decent looking cop of thirty-six was married or a swinger. No other choices considered or permitted. _...who's the girl this week...oh, third date...must be serious...wish I was single again...Ryan down in R &I is a queer, you know...wasn't interested in my wife's cousin...he don't look weird or nothing...don't need that kind...gives the whole place a bad rap...._

 

He lowered his eyes to stare at his hands. “Yeah, I guess I do, and it stinks.”

 

Weight shifted on the couch as Hutch sat down. An arm slipped around him, pulling him close.

 

“It doesn't mean anything, you know. Just a few hours out of the rest of our lives.”

 

Which sounded good, but didn't help. Not even now, or maybe especially not now. He turned his head to stare into crystal eyes. Love stared back at him.

 

But suddenly their love seemed terrifyingly fragile—a thing of spun glass dreams and hopes, existing only by the grace of quiet words and softened tread. There had been no time to set the pattern in concrete and steel, and if this perfect model were destroyed now, they might never find a way to rebuild. Yes, they were going to have to play the world's games, but not yet.

 

“We're not going Thursday night, Hutch.”

 

The arm at his back stiffened, and the eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “You just agreed we have to.”

 

“No, I only said I know why we have to, and I do, but not this time. It's too soon.”

 

Hutch searched his face for several moments in silence. “It's always going to be too soon, isn't it?”

 

He merely nodded, acknowledging the part of him that would never willingly see Hutch with someone else—a fact he had lived with for twelve years and would learn to live with again...someday, somehow. But something of greater importance was at stake right now, at this moment. He lifted one hand and gently brushed his fingers across warm lips, feeling their softness, remembering their taste. “We need time, babe, just for us. Those few hours you talked about might be the ones we need the most. Everything's new, all over again, like waking up in a different world. If we try to pretend nothing's changed, we're gonna get lost, and I don't wanna lose you.”

 

“You don't really think I'd let you get away now, do you?”

 

The beautiful mouth smiled at him, and his heart turned over. So much love and so much to threaten—the dark recesses of Hutch's mind the greatest threat of all. Somewhere in that maze of conflicting thoughts lurked a thing of destruction, caged now, but waiting only for a moment of carelessness to rip away the bars and come charging out. And it was an insidious monster, disguised in robes of reason and good intensions, never appearing to be what it was until it stood poised for the fatal blow. Over the years he had learned to recognize its many forms just as he saw it now—smiling face of death.

 

“Humor me, huh?” He leaned forward and kissed the corner of Hutch's mouth, breathing in the clean scent of his skin, pressing more firmly against the warm body. “Just for a while?”

 

“They're gonna think it's strange.”

 

The arms tightened about him.

 

“We'll tell them we're undercover.” He nuzzled an earlobe, laughing softly as he felt a small shudder ripple through Hutch's body.

 

“Lies,” came the slightly breathless comment.

 

“Umnn....” He trailed soft kisses down the throat. “Doesn't have to be.”

 

Fingers curled in his hair, drawing his head up to meet blue fire.

 

“You're not fooling me, you know.” The voice was thick with desire. “I'm onto your tricks.”

 

“Good. Then this one'll come as no surprise.” He slipped a hand between Hutch's thighs and moved it up to cup the swelling bulge at his crotch. “Let's go to bed,” he murmured against the parted mouth. “Got another one I wanna show you.”

 

~~~~~~~~

 

Soft strands of Hutch's hair, damp from the shower, tickled his chin. He brushed them aside with gentle fingers, staring down at the golden head resting on his chest. The warm, sated body curled around him, relaxed, sleepy. _Mine, here and now...to love and hold...mine...._

 

Possession. Where had this need to own come from? Hutch loved him. Why wasn't that enough? Why hadn't it ever been enough? But it hadn't—not in all the years.... He'd begrudged every minute, every thought Hutch had expended on anyone or anything other than himself. And now it was a thousand times worse. What did he want? To lock him away somewhere, imprison him? Keep him caged like some prize pet in a private zoo? Was that it? Maybe.

 

Hutch stirred, burrowing closer. He ran a hand down the smooth back and pulled the blankets a fraction higher.

 

But part of it was fear, too. Hutch was so vulnerable—innocent in a way his age and experience denied yet couldn't negate. Another paradox. Hutch the realist, who pretended no expectations of life and who was hurt over and over again by a life that failed to meet his expectations. And what was he expecting now? What dream was he hiding behind that facade of practicality.

 

He stared up at the shadow patterned ceiling, confused and frightened. Mazes again—lost paths, false clues. Was it really Hutch he wanted to protect, or himself? Was there any difference?

 

What was it that guy had called people like him and Hutch? Duplas? Diplass? Something like that. Paired souls—neither existing without the other. The idea made sense of their lives...sort of. No one in his life had ever been as important as Hutch, hadn't even come close. He loved his mother, worried about her sometimes, but the knowledge that she would be horrified if she knew about Hutch didn't affect him. He merely wouldn't tell her. Not because of shame or guilt—their love was too real to permit that kind of pettiness—but because he wasn't going to let anyone hurt Hutch, not even his mother. And she would hurt him...with the quiet tears and loving words, all the avenues of regret. She simply wasn't capable of understanding what he felt for this man in his arms. No one was. He wondered if he understood it himself. They—those other people out there—at least had names for it. They called it love or sickness or sin and knew what they meant by the words. He wasn't sure.

 

No one had to tell him that this was a strange love affair—not because it was between two men, but because it had gone on for so long before he'd become aware of its existence. A person ought to know when he was in love. So why hadn't he? Was it because the relationship was unacceptable to society? That kind of thing had never bothered him. Or was it because he'd thought the relationship would be unacceptable to Hutch? He smiled at that irony and settled his arms more snuggly about his...lover? No. The word lacked permanence. Beloved.

 

_My beloved. Mine forever...mine enough to share...someday._

 

A small knot of pain twisted in his chest. Full circle.

 

As if feeling the constriction, Hutch shifted, tilting his head up to meet Starsky's gaze. “Something wrong?”

 

For a moment he was unable to answer, caught in the pale eyes and his own tangled thoughts. “No,” he murmured at last, “something's very all right.”

 

Hutch smiled, hugging him briefly. “We never did have dinner, you know. Want me to fix a steak?”

 

“Uh-uh, not hungry.”

 

Surprise widened Hutch's eyes. “Love really does do strange things to people.” He laughed, returning his head to Starsky's chest.

 

 _Stranger than either of us may ever know, babe._ He stroked absently at the blond hair, wishing night into eternity. No days to plan against. No unsolvable problems demanding solutions. Nothing but the feel of Hutch in his arms and the taste of love on his lips.

 

He sighed softly for the impossible and kissed the golden head, accepting the reality of now as all there was. Tomorrow had a way of being what it would be, no matter.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

ONE WEEK LATER

 

Dawn light was edging its way into the room when he awoke with the feeling of something wrong nagging at the fringes of his mind. He blinked sleep from his eyes, trying to define the source of his anxiety. Not a dream. Something....

 

“Hutch?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

No suggestion of sleep in the voice. He propped himself on one elbow, peering through the semi-darkness at the shadowed face. How long had he been lying there alone with his thoughts? “Why didn't you wake me up?”

 

“You were tired.”

 

“And you weren't?” He tried to bring lightness to the words, but knew he'd failed even before he felt the indifferent shrug of Hutch's shoulders. “What's wrong, babe?” he asked quietly.

 

“Nothing.”

 

Always nothing. “Thought we were through with those games.” He lay down again, placing a hand on the warm chest.

 

“Why does something have to be wrong?”

 

“Because I know you.” It felt good to be able to say that again and know it was true. “You gonna tell me what it is?”

 

Hutch sighed and reached up to cover his hand with strong fingers. “I guess so. You'll know soon enough, anyway. My folks are coming out for Christmas.”

 

“Oh?” He fought for balance, something to counteract the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. “Well, that's good, isn't it? I mean you haven't seen them in quite a while.”

 

Hutch turned his head on the pillow to look at him. “It's shitty and you know it.”

 

There was nothing to say to that. The very proper Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson looking down their very proper Nordic noses on everything and everyone, especially on this particular—God forbid!—half Jewish, half Catholic New York Polack cop.... He'd only met Hutch's parents once, but he could still feel the arctic chill with which they'd greeted him. _Kenneth speaks very highly of you, Mr. Starsky. Your father was a police officer in New York, wasn't it? Dreadful city. We keep hoping Kenneth will realize he has potential in other, more...suitable areas of endeavor. It seems such a shame for him to waste his time in an occupation that requires so little of his intellect._ He had seen the flush of anger color Hutch's face at the thinly veiled insults and had beat a hasty retreat. Since then he'd managed to avoid the Hutchinsons during their infrequent visits. Hutch didn't need the hassle. His parents made his life miserable enough as it was.

 

“I don't want them here, Starsk. This is our Christmas, just the two of us.”

 

Gentle fingers twined in his hair as Hutch moved up against him. He slid an arm around the slim waist, welcoming the contact.

 

“They won't be here that long. And they are your parents.” _Such a noble son-of-a-bitch!_

 

“No more games, huh?” Hutch murmured in his ear while a hand drifted down his back. “You're the only person I want to see Christmas morning.”

 

“What's this?” he asked around the lump in his throat. “The man who always said Christmas was just another day?”

 

Hutch drew back slightly, staring at him in the gathering brightness of morning. “I was wrong,” he answered softly. “It's a very special day when I share it with you. You make it special.”

 

He brushed a faintly stubbled cheek with light fingers, letting his eyes drink in the beauty of this face he loved. It wasn't fair that they had to deal with so many problems all at once. Maybe Hutch was right, and they should just take off for somewhere far away where they could be together for a while, with no one else to consider. Wasn't that what he'd been thinking himself last night when he'd talked Hutch into breaking their date with the girls for Thursday. Isolate themselves?

 

“I could tell them, you know.”

 

“What?”

 

“About us.”

 

The pale eyes didn't waver, wide with sincerity and love. White knight facing death with purity of purpose and faith in love.

 

He drew in a deep, shuddering breath and rolled over onto his back. Tears blurred his vision as he stared up at the ceiling. How could he have been so blind? Or so unfair? So sure that his own love was the stronger and deeper, not believing any of this was real and or permanent. Somewhere inside, hidden by all the words, had lived doubt—doubt of Hutch and his love. And he'd been so wrong.

 

Suddenly, he saw all their years in panoramic view. Hutch standing between him and the world, protecting him from the consequences of his temper, smoothing the feathers of their superiors, shrugging aside his more refined behavior patterns so that his partner wouldn't be embarrassed, burying his very love for two horrible years to keep an imagined burden from him...and now willing to alienate his parents. It made no difference that he cared little for their approval. That wasn't the point. Because it was all at once very clear that he would do the same with the entire world if he ever felt it necessary. All for him. His own shining knight errant. Even the determination to keep up pretenses with the people around them was an attempt to protect him...from ridicule and rejection.

 

All this time, he'd thought he was the one who had kept them together, when it had really been Hutch who had made the sacrifices.... _...and he loves me...._ The strength of that love washed over him, bringing a deep humility. Fragile? Very nearly indestructible. The pattern suddenly snapped into sharp focus—Hutch standing guard against the world; himself standing guard against the darkness of Hutch's soul—love was such a glorious cause to die for, and he wasn't about to give him an opportunity to prove it.

 

He wiped surreptitiously at his eyes, clearing the hoarseness from his throat. “No, don't do that.”

 

A hand settled on the side of his neck, thumb sliding slowly back and forth along his jaw line.

 

“I think maybe I'd like to. Let them know how lucky I am.”

 

“Humph! Think you'd get some argument on that. Anyway, we've got a few weeks. We'll think of something else.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“I don't know. Maybe we could get our vacation changed. Someone told me that Sweden's nice this time of year.”

 

Hutch laughed and reached out to pull him close again. “You'd freeze off that cute ass of yours,” he said, running a warm hand over the anatomy in question.

 

“Cute, huh?” He looked deeply into the smiling eyes. “Thought you'd never notice.”

 

“The way you throw it around? Who're you trying to kid? Which is something else I've been meaning to talk to you about.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” Hutch's hand tightened, drawing him even closer. “I don't want anyone else getting ideas.”

 

Starsky thrust his hips forward, wiggling suggestively. “About what?” he asked, innocence of tone belied by the continued movements of his body.

 

“You know damned well about what,” Hutch muttered, pushing him onto his back and leaning over him. “I've seen the way that bastard Sedley looks at you.”

 

“It's Nedley, and if he's lookin' it's sure not because he likes—“ He stopped, realizing what he'd almost said. But the sudden clouding of Hutch's eyes told him that the sentence had been completed. “Sorry, babe,” he whispered, “that was stupid.”

 

Hutch shook his head briefly and pulled away, sitting up. The long, smooth muscles rippled in the morning sun, gold-burnished, a sculptor's dream. “I've sold you a sordid little piece of hell, haven't I?”

 

“Don't you dare!” He sat up, grabbing a startled Hutch with painful hands. His voice shook with anger. “Don't you dare make this into something dark and ugly. This isn't sordid.” He fastened his mouth to Hutch's, invading that hot, sweet cavern with demanding tongue, pushing him back until they lay in a tangled weave of arms and legs. “And this,” he whispered shakily, reaching down to stroke the swelling cock to throbbing erection, “isn't hell. Is it?”

 

Dazed eyes stared into his.

 

“Is it?” he repeated harshly, tightening his hold.

 

“No!” Hutch gasped out. “No.”

 

“Those sonofabitches down there can think what they damned well please—that's their problem. But what we've got is beautiful, and don't you ever call it anything else.” He took the tender mouth again, the fire of anger turning to passion. He wanted to consume this man, burn away every doubt and fear until only the pure flame of love remained.

 

Hutch moved beneath him, low moans of urgency rising from his throat. Fingers wound tightly in his hair—hurting, frantic fingers. He tore his mouth away, dragging air into his tortured lungs.

 

“Please, Starsk...for God's sake! Please....”

 

The slim body shuddered under his questing hands, writhing impatiently as he nipped at one bronzed nipple. “Tell me what you want, babe.” He moved his head lower, licking at the smooth stomach. “Tell me.”

 

“Don't care...anything, everything. Jesusgod! Just do it!”

 

“Like this?” He took the head of the swollen cock between his lips, sucking gently, breathing in the heady odor of musk and filling his mouth with the taste of it.

 

“Yes, yes!”

 

The hands were back in his hair, urging his head down, hips thrusting upward to meet him. He drew away, disentangling himself from Hutch's grasp, forcing his own aching body to slow down.

 

“Nooo.....”

 

The groan of frustration brought a smile. “Or this?” He shoved the long legs apart, knelt between them, slipped his hands beneath the hips, pulling Hutch toward him. Bending forward, he fished the tube of lubricant from the nightstand and twisted off the cap.

 

“What are you doing?” Huge eyes followed his movement.

 

“Fucking you. Now, shut up, and bend your knees. Yeah, like that.” He spread the silky cream between Hutch's buttocks, slipping a finger into the tight opening while leaning over to take the straining cock in his mouth again.

 

A strangled cry reached him as the captured body struggled helplessly. “Oh, goddamn, Starsk...I can't... I can't....”

 

The first clear liquid drops salted his tongue, and he drew away, quickly preparing himself. With shaking hands he spread the firm cheeks and pushed into the smooth channel. Heat engulfed him as he worked himself in deeper, gritting his teeth to hang onto his control. _...not yet...not yet...._

 

Hutch's head thrashed about on the pillow, his face stretched in a grimace of exquisite pain. Short, guttural sounds escaped the throat.

 

With a last, sharp thrust, Starsky felt his cock slide home. Panting, sweat pouring down his chest and back, he grew still...waiting, waiting.... “Look at me,” he commanded.

 

Glazed eyes opened—unfocused, dark with desire.

 

“I'm gonna suck this big, beautiful cock, and you're gonna come in my mouth. And all the time you're gonna feel me inside you, fucking you. 'Cause right now I am god, and this is heaven. You understand?”

 

The sun gilded head nodded.

 

“Tell me.”

 

“You're god. This is heaven,” came the whispered response. “Only you're driving me crazy. Starsk, please...please....”

 

The eyes closed again, and a low moan melted into the morning air, as Starsky lifted the tembling legs over his shoulders and leaned forward.

 

The long full cock throbbing in his mouth, the eager ass claiming him with hard muscles, the cries of ecstasy, filling his mind.... And the universe erupted in liquid fire, a circle of unity—pouring down his throat, channeling through his loins—to be traveled again and again.

 

Existence teetered on the brink of infinity and then rocked back into the plane of light and sound. He collapsed between Hutch's thighs, slipping out of him to curl in drained repletion, head resting on the sweat soaked abdomen. The taste and smell of sex suffused his senses like a drug, holding him spell bound, robbing him of movement and thought.

 

“My god!” the awed voice filtered through his lethargy. “Where did you learn that?”

 

Gentle hands flitted unsteadily across his hair and shoulders. He shivered, suddenly cold. Laughter rang in his ears and he was thirteen again, watching Chip Andreni approach.

 

Arms reached for him, pulling him up. Hutch cupped his face in both hands, forcing their eyes to meet. “You didn't answer me.”

 

He stared, mesmerized, unable to make his mind function. Someway out of this...a believable lie...any kind of lie.... “What d'ya mean?” He forced a laugh, praying for inspiration. “You wanna register a complaint or somethin'?”

 

He braved out the searching gaze, keeping the smile of self-satisfaction firmly in place. Pretend it's a case. No chinks in the armor.

 

Finally, Hutch shook his head and drew him close. “You're something else, David Starsky. Sometimes....” The quiet voice trailed off.

 

He let himself relax in the warm arms. _Let it go, babe. Please, no more questions. Crying into the bare matress...hating...wanting...afraid...._

 

“Starsk?”

 

“Hummm?”

 

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said before.”

 

“S'okay.” He breathed in the scent of sweat-dampened hair. “We all say some dumb things once in a while.”

 

A faint chuckle rippled like sunlight through water. “That's one way to put it.”

 

Several minutes slipped by in comfortable silence while he pushed away memories of that other place and time. They weren't important. Nothing before Hutch was worth the time thinking about. Hutch was all that mattered, all that had ever mattered.

 

 

*******

*******

 

CHRISTMAS EVE FOUR WEEKS LATER

 

The dining room shone with understated elegance. Plain white candles in sterling holders reflected from every crystal goblet and silver dish. Emerald, floor-length table cloths and snowy napkins further testified to the _Montagne's_ status as the premier restaurant of Beverly Hills. Tuxedoed waiters provided unobtrusive, completely efficient service.

 

He sipped at the cognac, inhaling its expensive bouquet. Money really could supply some of the better things in life. His mother smiled, arching her eyebrows in a life-long precursor to some politely stated criticism.

 

“You ate very little of your dinner, dear. Wasn't it to your liking?”

 

“It was fine.”

 

“Some of these costly places don't live up to expectation, do they? Your father and I discovered years ago that we prefer to dine where the quality of the food is the first consideration, whether or not the restaurant is fashionable.”

 

He carefully set the snifter down and met the blue eyes so much like his own. “ _Montagne's_ has a four star rating, Mother. There's nothing wrong with the food. I simply wasn't hungry. You can understand that, can't you?”

 

The sarcasm in his voice brought the expected reaction from his father.

 

“You will not speak to your mother in that fashion, Kenneth. She's entitled to her opinion, one with which I agree, as it happens.”

 

He looked from one to the other of his parents, the emptiness of the evening crashing down on him. It was Christmas Eve, for God's sake! A time of joy and love and togetherness. A night meant to be spent in laughter and anticipation. A night he should be spending with Starsky, not sitting here with two people he hardly knew and really didn't like very much. “You're never satisfied, are you? Nothing can ever just be enjoyed. _A Chorus Line_ was suggestive. The philharmonic wasn't as good as one in Philadelphia. The weather is unnatural. The best restaurant on the West Coast is over-rated. Why'd you come out here, anyway? Why didn't you visit Lori? All the right places, right people, right weather.”

 

“Lower your voice, Kenneth,” his mother murmured. “There's no need to display your bad manners to the entire restaurant.”

 

“You're right.” He placed his napkin on the table and pushed back his chair. Standing up, he extracted six twenties from his wallet and tucked them beneath the brandy snifter. “Merry Christmas.” He smiled, feeling release surge through him, and turned to leave. Going home....

 

“Stop acting like a child,” his father snapped. “How are we supposed to get to our hotel? You know taxi service is impossible in this city.”

 

He drew in a deep breath, released it carefully, and faced them again. Trapped in the habits of a lifetime.... “Okay,” he said quietly, bitterness a sour lump in his throat, “I'll drive you.”

 

“Of course, you will, dear.” His mother patted her husband's arm soothingly and stood. “It's Christmas Eve, and we mustn't disagree over such trivial matters.” She smiled at both men, picked up her coat and purse, and moved majestically toward the exit.

 

Hutch rubbed a hand over his face, tired and angry and trapped...always...then followed her. Why had he let them come out here? He should have lied, told them he had other plans, anything....

 

She paused at the door, handed him her coat, and turned so that he was forced to help her with it.

 

“Thank you, dear. Let's open our presents tonight, shall we? We'll have champagne sent up and—“

 

“Let's go,” he interrupted, shoving open the heavy oak door, and stepped out into the balmy December night. _Always the same...._

 

“Your father, Kenneth.”

 

“I'm here.”

 

Robert Hutchinson took his wife's elbow and Hutch turned his back on them, striding rapidly toward the parking lot. Thirty minutes, if he hurried. Another thirty minutes to get home. Twenty-five to Starsky's. He unlocked the passenger door and walked around to the driver's side. Almost two hours—eleven o'clock—early enough. He drummed his fingers on the roof of the car, impatient, and watched his parents' leisurely approach.

 

They were both tall, slender people—handsome in the cold, haughty manner of their type. Nothing felt too deeply—not anger nor love—passionless dignity the ultimate standard. The fire-bright eyes of his lover flashed through his mind. Starsky, the very essence of passion, life that burned unafraid. A desperate need engulfed him, jamming his senses, constricting his chest. He wanted Starsky here, now, in his arms, warming him, filling up the awful, aching emptiness.

 

His father stopped in front of him while his mother continued around to the car. “I took care of the tab, Kenneth.” Several bills were held out to him.

 

He stared at them for a moment, then looked at the older man. Anger, old and familiar, flared. “Keep the goddamned money. I chose the restaurant. I'll pay the bill.”

 

“Now, son,” his mother's voice intruded from across the car, “we know your salary doesn't provide for such luxuries. It was sweet of you to want to take us to this nice dinner, but—“

 

“Shut up, Mother,” he said with calm emphasis.

 

“Kenneth!”

 

He smiled at his father's shocked face. “You, too. Don't get in, Mother. I won't be driving you to the hotel, after all.”

 

“What's gotten in to you? Of course you'll drive us. It's Christmas Eve, and—“

 

“Precisely. And I'm already late for a previous engagement.”

 

Margaret Hutchinson returned to her husband's side, irritation pinching her face. “This is ridiculous, Kenneth. You've acted strangely all evening, and now this. What could possibly be more important than spending Christmas Eve with your parents?”

 

“Spending it with my lover.” The words slipped from him with delicious ease. He smiled again, pulled open the car door, and slid behind the wheel. _Soon, babe, very soon...._

“But we traveled two thousand miles to be with you. You can't just go off like this. Who is this woman? Why haven't we met her?”

 

“Well, actually you have met. But you've got the woman part wrong.” Anticipation welled as he took in their puzzled expressions. “You remember my partner, David Starsky.” He slammed the door and inserted the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and he backed from the slot. The headlights flashed for a moment on the elegant older couple standing side by side in the near empty parking lot. He waved before pulling away. Satisfaction, sweet and heady, rushed over him. Free. After all these years. Free at last!

 

********

********

 

CHRISTMAS EVE AND EARLY CHRISTMAS DAY

 

He sat staring at the tree with its shining new ornaments and sparkling cloak of tinsel. Dozens of tiny lights winked at him in random bursts of enthusiasm. The most beautiful Christmas tree he'd ever seen—their first tree, his and Hutch's. He half-smiled, remembering the project they'd made of its selection, both of them a little embarrassed by the depth of their feelings over this small gesture of unity. They'd spent hours decorating it, making sure everything was just right, arguing over the exact placement of a particular ornament, draping the strands of tinsel one by one. All of the decorations were new—that had been important—chosen carefully with an eye to future years.

 

His gaze traveled to the top of the tree where the most important decoration of all resided. It was an exquisite double star, hand-crafted in silver. Hutch had found it at some art show and bought it on the spot, despite the outrageous price. Something to keep forever, he'd said. A symbol, a declaration. They'd made love on the living room floor that afternoon in front of the sparkling tree, the beautiful star shining down on them. And afterwards Hutch had talked about them and their love and how they were like that star—two that were one.

 

The day had been full of hope and promises. A day to remember and cherish. Hutch had picked up his parents at the airport that night.

 

Almost a week ago, now. Their working hours were filled, the stepped up pace of crime that always accompanied the Christmas season keeping them on the move from morning till evening. And every night Hutch spent with his parents—theatre, concert, dinner. They were staying at a hotel, of course, somewhere downtown. Hutch's apartment wasn't large enough—or nice enough, he supposed—to suit Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Robert Hutchinson, Sr. But somehow he didn't feel right about being at Venice Place while they were in town. Which was why the tree was here—away from the eyes of strangers.

 

He sighed and slouched down farther into the chair. They hadn't planned it like this, although they should have known. All the hours were taken up, nothing left for just the two of them. A few minutes stolen here and there, a kiss, a telephone call in the dark. The decision to keep their private life separate from their work had been made weeks ago—the only way either of them could see to protect what they had. And it hadn't been too difficult while they'd had most nights and two days a week to themselves. But the past five days had been hell. Hutch had invited him along to everything, but he'd refused, knowing that the tension would be unbearable. So far he'd avoided all contact with the Hutchinsons. It was best that way—one game at a time was about all his partner could manage. And he didn't trust Hutch's reaction if his parents were to play their social snob number on him now. But, God, he was lonely.

 

The sharp ring of the phone startled him from his thoughts. He pushed himself out of the chair and hurried to the kitchen. Maybe Hutch had found a spare minute to call. “Hello?”

 

“Dave? Is that you?”

 

“Oh, hi, Annette.” He leaned against the counter, trying to fight the disappointment which threatened to become depression.

 

“Hi, yourself. Are you and that pretty partner of yours doing anything tonight? I know it's kind of late notice, but Margo's having a bash and there's always room for two more.”

 

She giggled and he realized she'd been drinking.

 

“Afraid you're too late, sweetheart. Hutch an' me are busy boys.”

 

“Are you sure? We're having a great time, and I haven't seen you in weeks. You never did call. Are you mad at me?”

 

“No, of course not. Just been busy, you know how it is.” He tried to recall her face and found that he couldn't.

 

“Busy, busy...how's a girl supposed to make time with you, David Starsky?”

 

“Think positive. Never know when you'll get lucky.”

 

“Why not tonight? I've got a present for you, something you'll really like. I can bring it over there, if you don't want to go out.”

 

Her voice had taken on the intimacy of seduction and for a moment he was tempted. Hutch was with his parents—tonight and all day tomorrow. But even as he started to agree, his eyes focused on the softly glowing silver of the double star. “No, that's not a good idea. Look, Annette, I gotta go. Nice talking to you. 'Bye.” He hung up the receiver, cutting off her protests, and pushed away from the counter.

 

Lights turned off, he lay on the couch in the darkness of his silent apartment and gazed at the twinkling tree. Christmas Eve wasn't meant to be spent alone.

 

~~~~~~~

 

He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, confused and groggy. Something he should do. A loud thump cut through the silence.

 

“Hey, Starsk, open up, will ya?”

 

The thump was repeated.

 

“Hutch?” He scrambled off the couch and hurried across the room to fling the door wide. “Why didn't you—“

 

“Take something,” Hutch interrupted, jerking his chin at the overflowing items he held in a precarious grasp. “Careful of the champagne.”

 

He made a hasty grab for a sliding box done up in red foil and then took a brown paper sack and another gift wrapped package.

 

“Thanks.” Hutch grinned and stepped past him into the apartment. “Should've made two trips.” He lowered several more packages onto the sofa and propped his guitar against the end table.

 

Starsky kicked the door closed and walked over to deposit the things he held beside the others. “What is all this? And what are you doing here?”

 

Arms encircled him, drawing him close. The warm mouth found his in a brief kiss. “Aren't you gonna say hello?” Wide eyes, full of love and laughter stared into his.

 

“Hello,” he whispered, sliding his hands inside the leather jacket to press against the softness of body-warmed quiana. “You're all dressed up.”

 

“Got a hot date.”

 

“Oh?” He smiled as long fingers played with the buttons of his shirt. “Anybody I know?”

 

“Ummm. Depends. You know a funny looking guy who sleeps with Christmas Trees?”

 

Unfastened now, his shirt was pushed aside, exposing bare skin to gentle caresses. Warmth spread outward from his groin. “Is he a pushover for blonds?”

 

“Definitely.”

 

A hand slipped inside the waistband of his jeans, fingers digging into the muscles of his buttocks.

 

“Never wears a stitch of underwear, either. Indecent.”

 

Lips nuzzled his neck, sending tiny thrills of excitement skittering along his veins. “Sounds like your type. Maybe I'm jealous.” He gasped as teeth nipped his earlobe.

 

“He talks too much, too.”

 

And the mouth was on his again, tongue thrusting deep, seeking, devouring. Awareness of everything but the man in his arms spun off into the night as need ripped through him, urgent and violent. Grunting with effort, he tore his mouth free and dragged in a rasping breath of air. “Bed,” he mumbled against Hutch's temple, then pulled out of the tight embrace.

 

The unsteady illumination from the Christmas lights flickered and danced through the darkness, creating elusive patterns of shadow across the bed. He watched with hungry eyes as Hutch finished undressing and stretch out beside him. “Come here, you,” he murmured, reaching for the long body. Familiar ecstasy, always new, coursed through him as a thigh came to rest across his legs. He pressed closer, reveling in the heat and smell of desire. Five days...five years.... A hand skimmed over his chest, stroking delicate circles, moving down to his abdomen, kneading. He squirmed under the touch, grinding his hips into the mattress. Lips feathered tiny kisses over his face, hot breath searing his skin. “Jesus, I've missed you.”

 

The mouth descended, tonguing wet fire along his breast bone, delving into his navel, biting gently at the taut skin over each hip bone. He moaned in an agony of delight as fingers wrapped loosely around his swollen cock squeezed. “Yes.... God! Yes....”

 

Hutch shifted, sliding down to kneel between his thighs. “Bend your knees some, babe.” Hands pushed his bent legs farther apart, stroking the soft inner flesh. “So beautiful. “

 

He arched against the searching mouth, crying out as the wet tongue lapped at his balls. “Please, Hutch...Hutch....”

 

“Alway so impatient.” Soft laughter filled the room.

 

But Hutch moved over him, slowly engulfing his cock in liquid flames. He grasped the golden head in desperate hands, thrusting himself deeper. “Oh, jesusgod...HutchHutch...yesyesyesoh.... Hutch....” A moment of nothingness and then he was in free fall, sliding down a slip-stream of noise and light—spinning, tumbling, weightless. Eons later he remembered to breathe and remembered his lover. “'M sorry...didn't mean...waited....”

 

“Shhh.”

 

Hutch was beside him again, tender lips flavored with his own body's essence cutting off the stammered apologies.

 

“Don't be sorry. I love it when you come like that. Love the taste of you on my tongue.”

 

Gentle fingers pushed the sweat-damp hair from his forehead, slid down his cheek to rest on his throat. He could feel the insistent nudge of Hutch's erection against his thigh. “My turn,” he murmured, attempting to roll the larger man onto his back. But strong arms held him in place.

 

“No, I'm not finished. That was only half of what I want.”

 

A hand slid beneath him.

 

“I want to fuck you, feel my cock inside you, look at you watching me fuck you. Your eyes turn the color of midnight when I make love to you. They're like that—full of stars...millions and millions of silver stars. And you talk to me...what you feel and want. Talk to me, Starsk.”

 

A shudder rippled through him as teeth grazed the flesh around one flat nipple. “Harder,” he whispered, arching against the feeding mouth. Fingers dug into his waist, kneading, bruising. He groaned in pain that was pleasure, feeling renewed desire seep through him. Kisses rained across his chest and abdomen, punctuated by sharp bites and a soothing tongue. He turned in response to insistent hands, trembling as the tender flesh of his ass fell victim to the punishing mouth. The cheeks were pulled apart, and the hot sweep of Hutch's tongue along the length of the sensitive cleft left him gasping for air. Never.... All sensation suddenly focused on the tight ring of muscles and the probing tongue which sought entrance. “Hutch? Oh, god! ...don't....” His body writhed to this new and alien touch, shocked and excited. He felt his cock growing hard again.

 

Kisses traveled up his back. “You don't like that?”

 

Whispered words in his ear, long saliva-moistened fingers entering him.... He groaned, pushing against the penetration, wanting more. “Yes, goddamn you!...everything....”

 

Laughter, soft and urgent. “Turn over.”

 

The fingers were withdrawn, leaving him empty and hungry. He rolled onto his back, staring up into the wide, glittering eyes. This was a Hutch he had never seen.

 

“Where's the stuff?”

 

“Here.” He fumbled in the nightstand, found the tube of lubricant, and held it out to the man kneeling between his thighs.

 

“No. You do it. I want to watch you get me ready.”

 

Fingers clumsy with desire, he twisted off the cap and squeezed a large amount of the cool cream into his palm. Hutch waited, watching. Starsky reached forward and grasped the heavy shaft. Spreading the lubricant over its hard smoothness with long, slow strokes. “God, you're beautiful,” he breathed, feeling his own cock swell. “Most beautiful goddamned thing I've ever seen.”

 

His hands were caught and pulled away. His legs were lifted off the mattress to rest on broad shoulders. Hutch arched back slightly, positioning himself, then shoved forward with a sharp thrust that wrung a cry of surprised pain from Starsky's throat. Hands clawing at the sheet, he squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his lip, tasting blood.

 

“Look at me.” Harsh command that demanded obedience.

 

He opened his eyes, trying to focus past the cutting edge of pain/pleasure that pulsed within him.

 

“You want more?”

 

“Yes...all...all of it....”

 

“All of what? Say it.”

 

“Your cock...all of your cock...oh, god....”

 

The demanding pressure increased, forcing entry, shoving him slowly over the edge of sanity into some place where reality was defined by the endless length of hard flesh which impaled him and the thunder of blood through his veins. Thought slipped away as the core of his being opened before the relentless assault, welcoming, reaching for more. “Holyshit, yes...fuck me...fuck me...goddamn you! Now, Hutch...Hutch...oh, yesyesyes...there...there...nownownow...NOW!” His body arched against the driving thrusts, going rigid as orgasm took him, hurling him into that other dimension where time stopped and ecstasy went on forever and ever—a place of wordless shouts and fountains of flame.

 

Gravity finally reasserted itself as Hutch collapsed across him, knocking what little breath remained from his lungs, but muscles wouldn't respond to do anything about it. Who needed to breathe anyway?

 

Gradually, he became aware of sound, muffled words spoken into his chest. He wrapped weighted arms around the sweat-slicked body and rolled sideways, sliding down to plant a kiss on the damp hair. He was caught in a crushing embrace that threatened to crack ribs.

 

“Never again...never. Always here. They can go to hell, every fucking one of them. Love you, love you....”

 

“Shhh, babe. It's all right.” He laughed, forcing Hutch to loosen his hold some. “If that's what they mean by absence making the heart grow fonder, I'm all for it. Jesus, babe, I thought I was gonna fly right out into space. That's the—”

 

He fell silent as the wide, clear eyes found his. The bared heart of this man he loved lay there, open and unprotected.

 

“I told them, Starsk.”

 

He drew in a shuddering breath and let it go, placing the fingers of one hand over the slightly swollen lips. Sweet holy saints. Told them. The ache in his chest threatened to choke him. No words would form in the vacuum that had become his mind. “Oh, babe.” Tears stung his eyes as he gathered Hutch to him. “I love you,” he whispered, trying to sort through the chaos of his emotions. Pride and fear waged silent war for possession of the moment. Final commitment. No turning back, ever. Last link broken, nothing left except himself. Now it really was just the two of them. _Me and thee, always, forever...._


End file.
